[Margaret lets out a sigh, continuing to pick at the wrapping paper. She gives Papyrus a look, eyeing the glass of milk in his hand. This was certainly a far cry from the idyllic, suburban life she imagined when she was still in the army. She tosses the box onto the nearby couch, then turns to look back towards the tree, hands on her hips.]

There's one there for you, too. Look.

[She points at a conspicuous-looking box with a fancy label on it.]

For some reason, I get the feeling that Santa's not the one who came down the chimney last night.