Their lives are busy.

Too busy at times.

Between managing the “Chips-n-More Shoppe,” volunteering for two charities and attending their friends’ parties, the couple next door whom you saw move in but’ve never met seem, are rarely home.

So, when they are home, they relax, forgetting about impulse purchases from the Internet.

Packages bake in the Sun, propped up against the front door for days, until one of them opens the front door to make sure the security system is active.

They have no idea when packages are delivered or by whom.

They typically drive home late at night, tired, weary, exhausted, on autopilot as they pull into the driveway, their thumbs pressed against the fingerprint reader on the garage door opener built into the dashboard without realising what they’re doing, gliding out of their matching sport sedans and into the house mere minutes before they fall asleep in bed.

Sunday morning, he wakes up early, debating whether to risk his gimpy leg, ligament damage from last year’s touch football game still bothering him, to jog around the neighbourhood and see if there are any neighbours out and about at 5 o’clock.

Instead, he stops at the end of the driveway, dumbfounded, speechless.

How could he have missed this?