The man in the suit crosses and recrosses his legs, as he speaks.
"When she hands it to you, you need to act surprised."
The little boy doesn't comprehend quite as fast as they would like him to.
"But I already know what it is."
The man scowls, then composes his features for the benefit of the child. "Yes, but, everyone else thinks that you've never seen it before. They think you've never seen anything like it. We don't want to confuse them. You would make them sad."
The boy blinks. "So?"
"Well, we want them to continue thinking that this is the first time you've seen it," the man goes on, "because when they see how you react, they'll want one to!"
The man does not like children. He doesn't like the way they reason. He doesn't like how overtly animated you must constantly act to keep their attention. He doesn't like their stubborn apathy toward things that don't immediately benefit them. He doesn't like their high voices. He doesn't like that they need to be entertained.
Needless to say, the man has a rather doctored, selective memory of his own childhood.
He gets up and puts his hands on his knees, crouching so he has to look just slightly down his nose at the child. The child remains sitting, the child remains unenthused.
"If you do this for me, you know what I'll do?"
The boy blinks again.
"I'll give you another one. Ten more. Twenty more. You'll have so many, you won't even know what to do with them all."
A new consideration clouds the child's expression. Things begin to look a little less difficult.
When the boy speaks, the man has begun to leave, thinking he is done.
"What's the point of having that many? Most of them won't get used."
The man turns to face the child again, his hand on the doorknob. He is not to be trifled with. "That is a very good point. How about this: you act surprised when she hands it to you, or we will give it to another little boy."
The child is unconvinced.