Molly tapped a greasy finger against the blueprint, which was, in fact, the back of a pizza box. The van smelled of old coffee and quiet desperation. “The Bouncy Castle of Doom is our primary obstacle,” she declared, her voice low and conspiratorial. Bill squinted through the smudged windshield at the target: 124 Primrose Lane. The inflatable dragon in the front yard looked less like a doom-bringer and more like it had just received some very bad news. “You mean the sad dragon?” he mumbled around a mouthful of corn chips. “One of its wings is drooping.” She ignored him completely, her entire being focused on the crayon-scrawled diagram before them. The seriousness she applied to the task would have better suited a plan to crack the Bank of England, not Landon’s Sixth Birthday Bash. “Ignore its structural integrity. At 14:30, the magician, ‘Magnifico Marvin,’ begins his set. That’s our window. The children will be mesmerized by his subpar illusions.” “Are you sure? Last week you said the face-painting station was the key distraction.” “Intel was bad,” Molly snapped. “Turns out the face-painter is an art student with a glitter pot. No hypnotic value. Marvin, however, has a rabbit. That’s premium diversion.” Bill licked orange dust from his thumb. He had to admit, the planning was always the worst part. All these code words and schematics for what would inevitably devolve into him tripping over a lawn gnome while she hissed at him from the getaway unicycle she’d insisted on using last time. “Right. Rabbit. So, I go in through the kitchen window you’ve marked ‘Easy Peasy’?” “Negative. We've upgraded. You’ll be disguised as a balloon animal delivery man. I’ve got the uniform in the back. It’s a slightly sticky polo shirt and a squeaky pump.” “A disguise? To steal a remote-controlled car and three Nerf guns? Seems like overkill.” “It’s about professionalism, Bill. We are not common thugs. We are artists. Now, what's the entry phrase?” He sighed, a sound that conveyed a deep, existential weariness. “The party toad has landed.” “No, that was for the retirement village job. This one is ‘The piñata is pregnant.’” “That doesn't even make sense.” “It’s not supposed to make sense! It’s supposed to be memorable. Now, once inside, you bypass the juice box station—do not get bogged down at the juice box station, I'm serious—and proceed to the ‘Pile of Plunder.’” Her pen circled a lopsided rectangle labelled with a skull and crossbones. It was clearly the living room coffee table, now shimmering under a mountain of brightly wrapped presents. “The plunder. Got it. Any chance the plunder includes those little pigs in a blanket?” “Focus, Bill! This is for the ‘Ultimate Lego Millennium Falcon.’ The biggest score of the season.” “You know they sell those at the mall, right?” Molly fixed him with a withering glare that could have soured a Capri Sun from fifty paces. “It's the principle of the thing.”