Molly and Bill sat in the van outside the children's party, the soft giggles of the kids mingling with the squawk of a nearby rooster. Bill, the muscle of the pair, was wrestling with a stiff hoodie and a bit of giddy-up rope. Over the roar of the engine, he asked Molly, "What kind of presents are we talkin' about here, sugar?" "High-end toys, action figures, dolls, and the like, one of them beauties could be worth a cool fin or two," Molly replied. Her mind fluttered from the hapless parents fussing over their children to the pile of shiny presents. "Here's to hoping they're not too big, huh?" Bill's hands held the rope tight, his thumbs precariously close to the knot he was fashioning for an escape. "We took an oath, remember? The stuff must fit." Exasperation dusted her words. The seconds ticked. With the strains of a bagpipe echoing from the party, Bill muttered, "If you're so scared that these gifts can't fit snowball bush, let's make a run for it." "Now now, let's stick to the plan." Molly wagged her plump finger teasingly. “Gifts are the candy; the party is the wrapper. We get in, unbox, and waltz out, hit series." "Say we get caught, sugar?" He pulled the knot tight and tightened the hoodie. "All I know is, we don't go to prison crying," Molly threw back at him. "So let's get to it."