On a rainy Saturday, Molly and Bill huddled under an umbrella, swirling up paper cups of cheap tea. "Well, here's the deal. We aim for cribs and walkers; ducklings and frisbees. Anything too small or too big they just chuck in the garbage, so we're looking for precious bits for black market import, and Mommy's little darling's tiny obsession." Bill chimed in. "Then what? A breakdown of the operation." "Operation, huh? It's not big enough to be an operation." "We need to be precise." "And careful. Sure, thirty presents is their target, eighty-profit, a solid seventy-eight for us after deductions," she whistled, tapping her foot to the rhythm. "We go through the kids' list, pinpoint down with a sharp pencil where we think the heavy stuff, like laptops, are likely to fall." "Hey!" Bill leaned in. "Why not just snatch the full goody bags while the kids are playing?" The rain drummed faster, busier, like there were fifty pencils once more in the process of negotiation.