The problem with trying to then hit Sam with a barrage of clumsily packed snowballs was that hitting him on the shoulder, neck, or indeed anywhere other than his face was bound to have little impact, especially when he was already mentally prepared for the attack. Still, Claire made her best effort, biting down on her lower lip as she tried to decide on the best vantage point. Something with a decent obstacle to block his snowballs, of course. And something not so large that he could sneak up to the other side without warning. She settled on a nearby parked taxi.

"Them's fighting words, Witwicky," she taunted in return, sticking her tongue out in his direction as she hurled another couple of snowballs his way. "You sure you wanna make a promise you'll never be able to keep?"