The air in the cramped room hung thick with the scent of stale coffee and desperation. Molly, all sharp angles and nervous energy, paced a worn patch in the rug. Bill, a man who seemed to wear his oversized flannel shirt as a second skin, sat hunched over a crudely drawn map of a suburban bungalow. “So, the intel is solid?” Molly’s voice was a low rasp, like gravel tumbling down a drainpipe. Bill grunted, tracing a finger over a crudely drawn circle. “Solid as a toddler’s grip on a sugary donut, which, incidentally, is what we’re after. Every last sugary, glittery goodie.” “And the target demographic?” Molly perched on the edge of a wobbly chair, her eyes glinting. “Seven-year-old Tiffany’s birthday bash. Parents are out of town, leaving Grandpa Nigel in charge. Nigel, bless his cotton socks, thinks a nice cup of tea and a nap is paramount after 7 PM.” Bill tapped the map with a stubby pencil. “The presents will be piled high in the living room, practically begging to be liberated.” “Liberated is a nice way of saying nicked, Bill.” Molly smirked. “But I like it. Fancy a bit of grandparent-wrangling?” “Nah, Nigel’s more of a ‘nodding off in his armchair’ kind of guy. We’ll be in and out before he even registers the absence of a rogue balloon animal. The challenge, my dear Molly, is the acquisition. We need volume. We need speed. And we absolutely, positively cannot get any of that regrettable neon pink slime on the merchandise.” “The slime is a valid concern,” Molly conceded, running a hand through her choppy, dyed-red hair. “What’s the entry point? A quick dash through the sprinklers?” “Too cliché. We’re going for elegance. The back patio door. Kids are notoriously bad at locking up after themselves, especially when they’ve been sugared up on Frosty Fruit popsicles. Grandpa Nigel, by all accounts, is even worse.” Bill chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “He’s probably still looking for the remote control he lost in 2018.” “Right. So we glide in, like specters of Christmas past, but with more self-interest. And the getaway vehicle?” Molly’s gaze drifted to the window, where a rusty bicycle leaned forlornly. “The trusty ‘Sparkle Pony’ awaits,” Bill said, patting the bicycle’s handlebars affectionately. “It’s got a surprisingly spacious basket. We’ll just make it look like we’re delivering… more presents. Or perhaps a very large, very organized pile of… recycling.” “Recycling full of brand new Lego sets and whatever that electronic gadget with the blinking lights is called?” Molly raised an eyebrow. “Precisely! Nobody questions an efficient recycling operation, Molly. Especially not a tired grandpa who’s just had a birthday cake the size of a hubcap. Now, this is the tricky part. We’ll need to distract the little terrors. Any ideas?” Molly’s lips curved into a predatory smile. “I brought a playlist.”