The interior of the 1998 Ford Econoline smelled faintly of regret and stale crisps. Molly peered through a pair of military-grade binoculars, the oversized lenses focused on a suburban house hemorrhaging joy. A vinyl banner proclaiming “Happy 6th Birthday, Leo!” flapped bravely in the breeze above a swarm of children rampaging across a pristine lawn. “Alright, synchronize watches.” Bill glanced at his wrist. “It’s a digital watch, Molly. It just says 'low battery'." She lowered the binoculars, fixing him with a stare that could curdle milk. “Focus. The target is the payload, located in what I’ve designated the 'gift grotto'.” She tapped a grease-stained napkin on the dashboard, on which she’d scribbled a crude floor plan. “You mean the dining room table?” “Semantics. The bouncy castle is a no-go zone. Too much vertical exposure. And watch out for the sugar-high sentries; they’re unpredictable.” A tiny girl in a fairy costume sprinted across the lawn and face-planted into a hedge. Molly made a note on the napkin. Bill squinted at the scene, his brow furrowed in concentration. “What about the clown? He looks shifty. The way he’s making that balloon poodle… it’s too precise.” “He’s tertiary, Bill. A non-factor. Our window is during the cake-cutting. Maximum distraction.” She pointed the binoculars back at the house, zooming in on a bay window where a mountain of brightly wrapped boxes glittered. The sheer volume of it was obscene. It was a treasure trove of plastic and potential. “D'you reckon there's any LEGOs in there? Or maybe a remote-control car?” Molly sighed, a long, weary exhalation. “Payload is payload. Your entry point is the doggy door on the west side. Minimal resistance.” Bill’s face soured. “The what? Molly, I’m not crawling through a flap that smells of wet retriever.” “It's the only viable infiltration route that avoids the face-painting queue. We stick to the plan.” He gestured vaguely at the front door, where a woman was greeting another small child holding a garishly wrapped present. “Couldn't we just knock and say we're here for the party? Bring a card?” Molly turned to him slowly, her expression one of profound disappointment. "Amateurs knock. We're professionals. Now get ready." She thrust a party hat with a fraying elastic string into his hands. His mission brief. He stared at it, then back at the tiny doggy door, and wondered, not for the first time, where exactly his life had gone so wrong.