The attic dust motes danced like tiny, excited sugar plums in the slivers of light piercing the gloom. Molly wiped a smudge of grease from her brow with the back of her hand. "Right, Bill. The target is downstairs. Fortress of fluffy toys and questionable balloon animals.” Bill fiddled with a length of repurposed Christmas tinsel. "Fortress is right. I saw Brenda, one of the moms. She’s got the eyes of a hawk who’s just discovered a very shiny button.” Molly chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. "Brenda's our first boss. We get past Brenda, we're golden. Remember the plan: diversionary chaos. You with the confetti cannon, me with the 'surprise musical number'.” Bill winced. "Still not sure about the lederhosen, Molly.” "It's theatrical, Bill! High stakes require high fashion. Now, the window of opportunity is when little Timmy blows out his candles. That's our cue. We move like greased lightning through a pudding factory.” "And if Brenda catches us?" Bill asked, securing a stray piece of tinsel to his already absurdly decorated jacket. "Then," Molly said, a glint in her eye, "we improvise. Maybe Timmy needs a puppet show to calm his post-birthday nerves."