Molly leaned across the cramped table, her finger tracing the complex blueprint spread before them like the outline of their soon-to-be triumph. The room was dim, lit only by the faint streetlights narrowly missing the seedy motel through its curtains, accompanied solely by the distant hum of the city acting as an overture to their impending escapade. Bill, whose greying hairs were only occasional trophies of his chronological journey, nodded slightly at the imposing schematics. "The sprinkler system, right near the ceiling fans—a classic disaster." Molly smirked, pushing back a strand of hair in a display of faux concentration. "Isn't that the charm? We're about as subtle as a broken disco ball at an 80's revival party." Bill chuckled, his eyes gleaming with the impending thrill of illicit gains. "Ah, the disco ball strikes again." "But mark my words, Bill," Molly's pointy nose wrinkled in determination, "this is no joking matter. Those kiddies will wake up with nothing under the tree." "You're acting like Mother Theresa here." Bill's smirk was matched only by his spirit for the capricious enterprise that was about to unfold. "I don't know where Mother Theresa is on a Saturday night, Bill, but I'm sure she's better off without dealings with a couple of renegade thieves." Bill gave a theatrical bow, preparing to counter with a witty rejoinder, but Molly cut him short. "Here's the protocol, we sneak in through the open window, disarm the motion sensors with this little device," she pointed to a small gizmo, "then, we hightail it to the living room where the presents are sure to await us." "Like Santa on Christmas Eve?" Bill inquired, trying to chisel some humor out of the impending operation. Molly snorted at the analogy, but the serious glimmer in her eyes forced Bill to sit up a little straighter. "I haven’t been Santa in years, Bill. Think Cinderella leaving her shoe behind." "Ah, I see. Should be easy on the kiddies' conscience then." "No Santa-schmantha. This will ensure no little ears overhear us. Discretion equals success." "Discretion, success." Bill liked the rhythm. He was salt of the earth, after all, and he'd worked enough excavations to know the rhythm of the ground. "Got it. Leaving no footprint, stealing all the presents, then realize Cinderella's not really your girl." Molly leaned back, a grudging smile creeping onto her face. "You crack me up, Bill." "And yet you haven't left. Because we're in this together. Better two sneaky foxes than one. So let's move, bucket list awaits this old pooch and his front of tool shed." Their laughter echoed in the room, their camaraderie forged in the fires of countless heists. Molly and Bill, two seasoned thieves, gearing up for the most audacious raid of their career, the theft of children's Christmas presents. The pair were like misfit puzzle pieces that somehow managed to fit together, their motivation latently altruistic even if their methods suggested otherwise. After all, they were not thieves on the classic sense; they were reclaimers, intent on returning joy to the world, by way of children’s presents of course.