The van smelled of stale crisps and desperation. Molly focused her binoculars on the house, a suburban monstrosity vomiting rainbows and streamers onto a manicured lawn. A bouncy castle shuddered under the assault of a dozen six-year-olds. “Okay, final check-in. You remember the signal?” Bill, who had been trying to peel a fossilized gummy worm from the dashboard, looked up. “The signal is ‘the eagle has Nikes’?” “No, Bill. That was for the jewelry store. The signal is when I trip the clown.” Molly sighed, the sound of a deflating dream. “He’ll be juggling. When the orange ball goes up, I ‘accidentally’ stick my foot out. He goes down, chaos ensues, and you go in.” “Right. And I’m Barnaby Buttons, the famous balloon animal artist.” “You’re nobody. You’re just a guy with a bag of balloons who saw an opportunity.” “But what if they ask for something complicated? Like a giraffe?” Molly lowered the binoculars, pinching the bridge of her nose. The beginnings of a headache throbbed behind her eyes. “You make a snake.” “A snake?” “Yes. You can only make snakes. It’s your minimalist artistic period. If they ask for a dog, you make a snake. If they ask for a monkey, you make a slightly different snake.” “What if they ask for a snake?” “Then you, my friend, are in luck. Now, the grab. While you’re distracting them with your slithery menagerie, I slip into the dining room. Intel says the Present Pile is on the main table. I use the modified laundry bag.” Bill nodded slowly, the cogs in his head grinding with the sound of rusty metal. “The one that looks like a giant sack?” “It *is* a giant sack. A sack for our glorious loot.” She raised the binoculars again. The party was reaching peak frenzy. A small child was trying to ride the family Golden Retriever like a noble steed. It was almost time. “Remember the exfiltration plan?” “I cause a distraction with an epic balloon duel against the clown, you slip out the back with the presents, and we meet back here.” “No epic duels. You just pop a few balloons very loudly and run. Got it?” “Pop… and run. Less dramatic, but okay.” Bill straightened his hideous clip-on bowtie. He looked less like a balloon artist and more like a tax auditor attending his own funeral. Suddenly, Molly stiffened. “Hold on. We have an unscheduled variable.” “Is it the dog-rider? He looks aggressive.” “Worse.” A portly man in a purple tuxedo and a top hat had just emerged onto the patio, carrying a cage with a rabbit in it. “They’ve got a magician.” “A magician? Is he any good?” “He’s pulling a rabbit out of a hat for a children’s party, Bill. He’s not David Copperfield. But he is another distraction. Another professional.” “We can’t compete with magic! My snakes are avant-garde, not supernatural.” Molly’s lips curled into a grin. She reached into the back of the van, pulling out a cheap cape and a plastic wand. “No, we can’t. But you, my friend, are about to become his number one fan from the audience.” “I don’t understand.” “You’re going to volunteer for everything. And you’re going to be spectacularly, legendarily clumsy.”