The sun beat down on the cramped, dimly lit apartment, casting an air of desperation over the makeshift planning room. Molly's eyes darted between the rough sketches of the target's layout, her mind racing with contingency plans for every possible scenario. Bill, lounging on the couch, snorted as he crumpled a piece of paper, wadded it up and tossed it aside. "Seriously, you think we can just waltz in there and start ransacking the presents? What if the kids' parents are actually, you know, supervising?" Molly shot him a withering look, her dark hair curtaining her face like a shadow. "You know as well as I do, Bill, kids' parties are chaos incarnate. The parents are either drunk or asleep; the kids are too busy screaming to notice anything except maybe 'I WANT IT!'" "True," Bill allowed, rubbing the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "But that's also our biggest risk. One overzealous six-year-old and we're both singing 'I'll Never Make Him My Valentine's Day Dinner...' Molly pinched her brow, a thread of annoyance creeping into her voice. "Bill, focus. We need to get in and out before the 'big reveal' when they all sing whatever schmaltzy song they teach them in school. I have a timeline, okay?" A soft whoosh echoed from the makeshift sound system as her pre-planning playlist segued into '99 Red Balloons'. Molly hummed along as she stood, hands floating above the map, tracking the hypothetical escape plan. "You're stalling," Bill deadpanned, scrambling to his feet as he snatched up the original sketch. "Just checking some variables," Molly lied, eyes dancing to the lyrics. "We need to synchronize watches," Bill countered matter-of-factly, his gaze still fixed on the layout. "Once we get in, we've got to work like a pair of swans, our... flapping, waddling, avian avatars perfectly in sync." Molly sputtered, incredulous at the absurdity of Bill's comparison, but she squelched the laugh and tucked the papers back into their designated folders. "Alright, fine, hypothetical flapping swan thieves. Last minute rundown: we hit at 1:42 PM; stealth breaks at 2:01 for gift-gabbling; two simultaneous, hushed verbal negotiations with mothers in need of 'just one more' bottle of juice; timing-based cat-and-mouse we sneak out before 3:00 PM." As Molly checked off her plan on an anagram of Post-It notes that read 'C-R-O-S-T' in invisible ink, Bill scribbled on a separate sheet, adding doodled illustrations of swans transforming into crime lord turtles with nunchucks. "Love the 'undercover turtle-wrangles' twist," Bill murmured, still writing. When Molly peeked, the page covered in scribbled turtle faces made out of X's. She blinked, a sharp crease growing between her brows. "Seriously, Bill?" Bill blinked slowly, sheepish-ness struggling to compete with his ploy for distraction. Molly chuckled, her frown collapsing, and picked up the hastily splayed papers. "Oh, you are a terrible thief." "Hey," he protested, voice muffled in mock indignation. "A job's a job... until it's time to cash out, drink a cheap, cold beer, and sing with all six vocal cords." Bill launched into an off-key 'When Doves Cry' redition, followed immediately by 'Who Wants to Go to Market?'