Molly and Bill sat huddled together, surrounded by a clutter of diverse, seemingly unhelpful items. Molly was meticulously scanning through a sneaker covered in glitter paint, while Bill carefully smoothed out a misshapen balloon, a crease noticeable across the face. "So, have you thought about the alarms?" Bill asked, suddenly breaking the hurried silence. "Only a little, but here's the thing," Molly said, her voice surprisingly serious. She paused as if installing a complex circuit, holding up a kitchen timer. "I'm setting the timer to three minutes." "Three minutes?" Bill sounded annoyed, but Molly held up a finger to silence him. "Hear me out," she continued briskly. "We have to work fast, but efficiently. I've already scoped the place out. The alarm is in the parents' lounge. Problem is, it's locked and the keys are in the clear view _right_ on the coffee table." She tapped the timer with a pen, making a small 'clack' sound. "We set the alarm to beep once at the two minute mark. Once we hear it, we'll move like a well-rehearsed dance, counterclockwise starting near the cake table. Each move is choreographed, with Bill covering my blindside and keeping an eye out for supervisors, while I make my way to the alarm." She let the plan unravel like it was an intricate handkerchief revealed from a magician's sleeve. "First stop, the wrapping paper aisle. Carefully pick and choose random pieces. We're not doing wholesale, just enough to mislead. Next, anticipate any flashy little extras that make each gift look _right_ on the interior setlist;" Molly illustrated this in the air with her hands. "Start by stringing gumballs and wrist-adjustable bracelets, aim for something wavering and unable to gather too much attention immediately. Even the confrontation should mimic that—job-hopping to the next aisle, discarding them to give the message of somebody else randomly doing something random. That way, it's a discombobulation of kids, parents, and randommojom_lists." Bill watched with slightly wide eyes, feeling the complexity of typing a Morse code that would decipher with one wrong strike. "What if it goes wrong? Let alone, you know, dislodge a barbie," Bill blurted. Molly seemed unstoppable. Sure, a few sparks could fly, leaving everyone in confusion and helplessness. But that was transparency, and with no glossy uniform, it was chaotic invincibility she sought. "I had a plan for that, too. Chances are, if our plan goes awry, we go for the break glass emergency exit thing. The place will only shake and freaking noise from the glass breaking, not from an alarm," Molly held up again to dispel any lingering fears. "Blink, boys, blink. The operation is clean, precise, and in a world of no amateurs, we're the certified." The remaining moments faded into an echo of undiscovered opportunity and unmissed potential. The weights of their shoulders seemed lifted, and as the sound of the timer repeatedly clicked, and rolled into the two minutes, they shared a sharp, secretive manage nod. That was a silent agreement between them, teetering on the edge of cinematic destiny, each breath, each thought, each anticipation, in this day of crime, in the simplicity of planning and executing a heist that worms its way into childhood memories and remains immortal.