At first Wolfgang does not understand, why is he looking at them like that? Have they got something on their face? And then they remember — working, they were working, it's all around them, tiny plastic bricks drifting in the air where they're easier to reach out and grab than digging into a bucket. And the cloud, the one they have been sleeping on because the air mattress had a hole in it.
All the Legos clatter to the ground at once like a colourful, centralised rain, and Wolfgang's face flushes bright red from neck to forehead. They duck their head, muttering something, and all those lights wink out at once. The room is dark again, an ordinary darkness, lit sparsely from the yellow light leaking out from the open door to the back.
Wolfgang mumbles something else, hair in their face, and makes an attempt to sweep all of the toys under a cabinet. There are too many, and they're all around them.