“Right, so the bouncy castle is a no-go for cover. Too… bouncy.” Molly’s finger hovered over a hastily drawn diagram of a suburban backyard. It looked like a kindergarten art project, if kindergartners were obsessed with infiltration routes. Bill, whose real name was William 'The Wrench' O'Malley, despite never having wrenched anything more complicated than a stubborn pickle jar lid, grunted. “Too much bounce, too little stealth. And the clown, Molly. We haven’t accounted for the clown.” “The clown is a variable we will deal with when we encounter it. Unless it’s one of those silent, mime clowns. Then we’ll just assume it’s judging us. Anyway, the shed. Storage shed, probably filled with gardening tools and disappointment.” “And a lawnmower. Noise. Unacceptable. We need silence, Molly. Like a ninja… riding a unicycle… silently.” “Okay, less ninja, more… very quiet person. The key here, Bill, is the presents. Specifically, the ones with the shiny paper. Those are always the good ones.” “Naturally. And we’re targeting the six-year-old’s birthday, correct? ‘Tyler’s Terrific Tumble and Trike Party’?” Bill squinted at the invitation, which Molly had ‘acquired’ from the kitchen counter of a distracted parent. “The very same. Replete with tiny bicycles, probably a terrifyingly enthusiastic DJ, and a significant collection of toys ripe for… reallocation.” Molly tapped her pen on a crudely drawn ‘X’ over what she assumed was the present table. “Reallocation. I like that. Sounds more… tax deductible. So, my proposal remains: The dog flap. It’s small, yes, but I’ve been practicing my limbering up. I can almost contort myself into a pretzel without dislocating anything vital.” “Bill, for the love of all that is quiet and un-dislocated, no. The dog flap leads directly into the kitchen. And you think a six-year-old’s party won’t have a parent hovering over the cake, armed with a smartphone and parental anxiety?” “Good point. Too many sticky fingers. Sticky fingers are the enemy of a clean getaway. Alright, what about the giant inflatable slide? It’s usually tethered down. We could… un-tether it. Use it as a ramp. A ramp to glory!” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “A ramp to glory usually involves less polyester and more, you know, actual glory. And the parents are usually quite attached to their rental inflatables. Besides, we’re not robbing a fort, Bill. We’re robbing a… a house. A very average house.” “But the presents, Molly! Think of the thrill! The tiny squeals of joy, replaced by our own triumphant grins, as we make off with a remote-controlled dinosaur and a complete set of superhero action figures!” Bill’s eyes gleamed with an almost childlike excitement. “Less squeals of joy, more the stunned silence of parents realizing their child’s loot has vanished. And then the police sirens. Focus, Bill. The window. The one in the conservatory. It’s slightly ajar in the photo.” “Ajar. Perfect. Ajar is practically an invitation. We’ll need a long pole, then. One of those extendable duster things. To… encourage it open further. And a bag. A very large, inconspicuous bag.” “Like a novelty golf bag. Or a very fluffy unicorn rucksack. Something that screams ‘nothing suspicious is happening here, just a very enthusiastic golfer/magical creature aficionado making their way through your garden’.” “I like the unicorn rucksack. It adds a certain whimsical threat. Alright, so conservatory window, duster pole, unicorn rucksack. What about escape? The neighbours have a very aggressive gnome collection. I’m concerned about tripping.” “We’ll navigate the gnomes, Bill. We’ll glide past them like silent, present-stealing angels. Just avoid the one with the fishing rod. He always looks like he’s judging you.” “They all look like they’re judging me, Molly.”