The van, affectionately named ‘The Prawn,’ smelled of stale crisps and desperation. Molly had the blueprints—a child’s party invitation with the floor plan scribbled on the back in biro—spread across her lap. Through the grimy windscreen, the target house buzzed with the chaotic energy of eight-year-olds. A bouncy castle shuddered perilously on the lawn. “Right,” Molly began, tapping a red circle over the conservatory. “The patio door. Mrs. Henderson always leaves it unlocked for the caterers. That’s our entry point.” “Are those mini-sausages on sticks?” Bill squinted through a pair of high-powered binoculars, fogging the lenses with his breath. “With little pineapple chunks? They look top-tier.” Molly snatched the binoculars, wiping them on her sleeve. “Focus, Bill. We’re not here for the canapés. We're here for the haul. Operation Birthday Bandit is a go in T-minus ten minutes, during maximum chaos.” “Maximum chaos being…?” “The ‘Pass the Parcel’ crescendo,” Molly explained with the patience of a bomb disposal expert. “The sugar-high is at its peak, parental vigilance is at its lowest. I create a distraction near the bouncy castle—a strategic, ‘accidental’ deflation—while you secure the Gift Mountain in the dining room.” “Gift Mountain,” Bill whispered, his eyes glazing over with a familiar, greedy reverence. “What if there’s a piñata? Those things are public domain once they’re cracked. Finders keepers.” She massaged her temples. It was like planning a special operation with a golden retriever. A particularly hungry, dim-witted golden retriever. The objective was so simple: get in, grab the pile of brightly wrapped consumer electronics and plastic nonsense, and get out before anyone noticed. Bill, however, was now staring intently at a clown twisting balloons into unrecognisable animal shapes. “I could do that. A balloon giraffe. That's a good distraction, isn't it? Better than deflating their fun castle.” “No,” Molly said flatly. “No balloon animals. Your giraffes look like unwell dachshunds. You go to the pile, you use the reinforced Santa sack, and you are out in ninety seconds. No eye contact with the birthday boy. Got it?” Bill finally tore his gaze from the clown and gave a slow, solemn nod. The gravity of the mission seemed to settle upon him at last. Or perhaps he’d just spotted the cake being brought out. It was a three-tiered monstrosity shaped like a rocket ship, complete with edible glitter. “Got it. Patio door, Gift Mountain, Santa sack.” He paused, licking his lips. “But if I see a slice of that rocket cake unattended…” “Bill.” “Just saying. A man needs fuel.”