The van, a rust-bucket named ‘Vantastic Voyage’ in peeling letters on the side, smelled of stale crisps and poorly conceived plans. Inside, Molly jabbed a greasy finger at a crayon-scrawled map of a suburban house. The goal: Operation Birthday Bash. The target: a mountain of gifts for a six-year-old named Leo. “Okay, one more time,” Molly said, her voice a low, intense whisper. “The package arrives at fourteen-hundred hours. That’s the clown.” Bill lowered a pair of heavy-duty binoculars from his face, a deep crease of concern on his forehead. “Are those pigs in blankets? I think I see a buffet station by the patio doors.” “Forget the buffet, Bill. Focus.” Molly tapped the map again, nearly putting a hole through the area marked ‘Kitchen/Dog Flap’. “The clown is our primary diversion. The moment he starts making balloon animals, parental-unit attention will be at its peak distraction level. That’s our O.Z. Opportunity Zone.” “Right. O.Z.” Bill lifted the binoculars again, panning past the screaming children on a dragon-shaped bouncy castle. He paused, a troubled look on his face. “You know, that little one, the birthday boy, he just fell over. Looks a bit sad. Maybe we should leave him the bike-shaped one.” A glacial stare from Molly could have frozen an erupting volcano. “We are not leaving the bike-shaped one. The bike-shaped one is the crown jewel. You create the secondary diversion at the water main, I go through the flap, secure the assets, and we exfiltrate through the back hedge. Simple.” He scratched his chin, the sound like sandpaper in the tense silence of the van. “It just feels… loud,” Bill mused. “Fiddling with a water main. Couldn’t I just, you know, ring the doorbell and ask for a slice of cake? They might be too polite to say no.” A flicker of pure, unadulterated exasperation crossed Molly’s face. “You are not 'asking for cake.' You are simulating a catastrophic pipe failure. We go on the squeak of the first balloon animal, not a moment sooner.” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing with tactical precision. “Do you understand the gravity of the timing?” “Gravity. Right. What goes up must come down. Like that kid on the trampoline.” Molly chose to ignore him, her gaze fixed on the front door of the house. A battered hatchback, trailing a faint cloud of blue smoke, pulled up to the kerb. A man with a deflated rainbow wig and a profound air of regret climbed out. He was carrying a single, limp red balloon. “It’s him,” Molly breathed, snatching a black woolly hat from the dashboard. “This is it. Go-time.” Bill fumbled for his own hat, which had a fluffy, ridiculous pom-pom on top. “Sync watches?” “We don’t have watches, Bill. Just try not to get distracted by the cake table.”