The van, which Molly had optimistically nicknamed ‘The Ghost’, was parked across from a suburban house bleeding pure, unadulterated cheer. It smelled, less ethereally, of stale crisps and regret. A banner declaring “TIMMY IS 6!” sagged between two giant, inflatable dinosaurs that bobbed in the breeze like arthritic security guards. From the driver’s seat, Bill lowered his pair of bird-watching binoculars, a faint smear of jam on the eyepiece. “Intel update from the perch. Pass the Parcel is reaching its climax. The tension is palpable over here.” Molly didn’t look up from the blueprint spread across the dashboard. It was, in fact, a child’s crayon drawing of their own home she’d fished from the recycling bin, complete with a smiling stick-figure family and a lopsided sun in the corner. She’d meticulously labelled the lounge, kitchen, and conservatory in neat, block capitals. “Forget the parcel, Bill. Eyes on Point Sierra—the conservatory. It's guarded.” “By what? A sugar-crazed toddler with a plastic sword?” “Worse. Aunt Carol,” Molly said, her voice dropping. “My source says she hovers near the presents like a vulture. We need a distraction.” Bill popped the last of a biscuit into his mouth, thoughtful. “So the cake plan is a go? I still think my ‘small fire’ idea has legs.” Molly finally looked up, her expression one of immense suffering. “We are not committing arson for a pile of LEGO. The ‘Happy Birthday Song’ is our window. Thirty seconds of pure audio-visual camouflage. We go in then.” She tapped a red-circled area on the drawing labelled ‘CAKE ZONE’. He squinted at it, then back out the windscreen towards the wheezing bouncy castle that dominated the back garden. Through the sliding glass doors, he could just make out a mountain of brightly wrapped boxes. “Got it. So when we breach Point Sierra, do we prioritise? I saw a box shaped like a ‘Turbo-Drone X-5000’.” “We take what fits in the sack. We are ghosts, not removal men. You brought the sack, didn't you?" Bill reached into the back and produced a large, slightly dusty red velvet sack trimmed with faux white fur. “The Santa sack? Yep. Still feels a bit off-season, though, doesn’t it?” “It's for the irony, Bill.” “Right. Irony.” He nodded sagely, though his expression suggested he wasn’t entirely sure what that was. He hefted the bag, the ridiculousness of it all finally seeming to dawn on him. Across the street, a small army of six-year-olds began chanting ‘We want cake!’ It was their signal. Showtime.