A grimy whiteboard, stark white against the peeling green paint of their cramped hideout, was covered in squiggles and diagrams. Bill, hunched over it with a crazed glint in his eye, tapped a crayon furiously against the drawing of a jumpscare clown. "See, this decoration here," he hissed, "it's a flimsy piece of plastic. We could trip the laser grids with a balloon." Molly, sprawled on a mismatched sofa, chewed a pickled onion thoughtfully. "Tripping laser grids with balloons? That sounds more like a recipe for ending up as human piñata than stealing presents." "Trust me," Bill insisted, "I did my research. Party City horror clowns? Bungling amateurs when it comes to security. You saw those Buzz Lightyear costumes, right? Velcro closures, practically begging to be picked apart." "I also saw kids with sticky fingers." Molly pushed herself upright, her eyes sharp. "We're talking about a room full of three-year-olds. Do you honestly think they'll just sit there during our grand escape with the loot?" Bill waved a dismissive hand. "Details, Molly, details. We'll have the goods stowed away and be out before they even realize the candy-shaped stress toys are missing. Remember, quick in, quick out." He sketched frantically, adding chicken scratch to the whiteboard. "Think of it: teddy bears, dolls, remote controlled cars... Imagine the Christmas spin this could get us!" "I imagine it getting us arrested," Molly said dryly, "or worse, a lifetime of passive-aggressive requests for stolen toys. 'My little Timmy was so devastated when Captain Rocket was lost..." Bill's face fell. "Fine, fine, maybe we could work in a moral dilemma. Leave a note? 'Sorry, had to get these for the orphanage.' Classic conman move." Molly snorted. "The orphanage would also be overrun with incorrect boy-doll configurations and half-chewed plush unicorns." "Hey, those are collector's items!" Bill protested, puffing his chest out. "Bill," Molly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Do you really think we should be targeting kids' birthday parties? What's next, infiltrating playdates and snatching crayon sculptures?" "Potentially lucrative," Bill mumbled, "if you consider the sentimental value of finger-painted masterpieces." Molly stared at him, then let out a sharp laugh. "You're impossible." "And you," Bill grinned, "you're going to love this heist. It'll be a riot!"