It was a Saturday evening when Molly and Bill found themselves dissecting the blueprints of Mr. Snugglepups' grandiose mansion, the site of the most opulent children's party in town. The room was lit poorly by a single failing lightbulb, their hushed voices cracking the silence like a wooden deck beneath the devious feet of thieves. "Okay, so the West Wing—that's where the gingerbread house is, the one with the candy canes and the choco-cupcakes," Molly whispered, pointing to a flamboyantly iced confection on the drawing. "I'd pick the gingerbread house, but that's risky," grumbled Bill, his eyes scanning the safe, which sat ominously in the heart of the mansion. "Safe's the real prize, perfect timing, perfect stealth, yeah?" "You really are a sap, aren't you?" Molly rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smirk at Bill's single-minded focus. "Listen, the safe is juicier, I get it, but we got the perfect cover here—the mascot! A kindly panda suit plush with hidden pockets." He stroked his chin, mulling over her plan. "I don't trust these fluffy costumes, but I'm in. How do we lift every single gift without a peep or a squeak?" "Think lasers, think Beanstalk," Molly's eyes danced mischievously. "A rope, and a feather. That should snugly fit into those French doors yonder." Bill raised a brow. "Roomba?" "Better than tripwire," Molly insisted. "A feather tickles President Bo Peep's heart, just enough pizazz to snap up the loot, and we skips out when the lights go out." He finally gave in with a grudging nod. "Let's hope we don't trip on shiny gift wrap." The mansion loomed before them like the proverbial jackpot, balloons adorning the heat, echoing the laughter and joy of the children within. Molly, suited up in her panda carapace, was a sharp contrast against the sea of pastels, Bill the inconspicuous handyman dressed all in black lurking in the shadows. Stuffed animals eyed Molly as she weaved through the exploding colors of the party, gifts cocooned in reds and greens and blues. A child's cacophony reached its peak as the clock neared midnight. Molly exchanged a knowing look with Bill before her feather dancer commenced its delicate tango across the ballroom floor. Lasers—bluish green arrows of death—a schooled safety drill, became child's play for her well-rehearsed moves. She ducked, and weaved, almost weeping as gifts whispered to her, "Goodbye forever children!" Cursing softly, Bill tugged at a rope concealed somewhere in the area. It squeaked in protest before trussing itself to the windowsill, a sturdy route of egress for the spoils. "This is like snatching bubblegum wrappers under a watchful park supervisor's eyes," Bill admitted, his hands shaking as he retrieved the stockpile of stolen joy. "By the end of this, Bill," Molly chuckled silently, "we'll need the confidence to ask Santa for a high-five." They hugged their pilfered booty tight, giddy with the thrill of their devious feat. Like boogeymen, they slipped out, the adults none the wiser, leaving behind a party now empty of presents, yet shining with the innocence of undetected mischief.