Molly paced around the cramped, dimly lit storage unit, her eyes scanning the eccentric assortment of disguises and gadgets that Bill had assembled over the years. He sat on a pile of cartons, ěnfolding a bright pink chicken suit. "So, what's the plan again?" Molly asked, her voice laced with skepticism. "We crash the Radcliffe twins' fifth birthday bash," Bill said, his voice muffled by the chicken's beak. "We're going in for the presents. I've been casing the joint for weeks." "White-glove handling?" Molly raised an eyebrow. "We're going up against screaming five-year-olds and their helicopter parents. I don't think our skills extend past minor league convenience store robbery." "Details, details," Bill said, wiggling a carton full of Smurf masks. "I've got a plan for every eventuality. Well, not literally every, but... okay, I've got a plan for about half of them." Molly snorted. "You're not even making sense." A faint chirping noise emanated from inside the chicken suit. Bill's voice dropped to a whisper. "It's just my new temp gun. Don't mind it."