The interior of the van smelled faintly of regret and stale cheese puffs. Outside, the merciless sun beat down on a sickeningly cheerful suburban street where every lawn was an identical shade of manicured green. Number 24, their target, had a swarm of pastel balloons tethered to its mailbox, bobbing like the disembodied heads of a candy-colored militia. Molly pinched the bridge of her nose, a gesture that had become second nature since partnering with Bill. He, meanwhile, was hunched over the steering wheel, studying their "schematic" with the intense, misguided focus of a general planning an invasion on the wrong country. The schematic was, in fact, a glitter-encrusted invitation for a seven-year-old named Kevin, now crudely annotated in red crayon. “Are you sure this is the 'schematic'?” Molly asked, her voice flatter than the van’s spare tire. Bill tapped a waxy drawing with a grubby finger, oblivious to her tone. “Top-grade intelligence, Mol. Sourced directly from the target's lunchbox. See? Bouncy castle here, that's our primary obstacle. High-visibility, soft-surface. A real killer.” Molly peered through the greasy windscreen at the garish, inflatable monstrosity wobbling in Kevin’s backyard, periodically disgorging a shrieking child. “It's a bouncy castle, Bill, not a laser grid. And what's this?” She pointed to a terrifying stick figure with a red nose and a permanent grimace that seemed to stare into her soul. “That's 'Mr. Sprinkles,' the entertainment. He's our wildcard. Could be a civilian, could be… security.” “He's a clown. He's going to make balloon animals.” Molly sighed, the sound of a thousand bad plans being re-lived at once. She could already picture the squeaking of latex. “Exactly. Unpredictable. My intel says he juggles. Juggling is a distraction technique. We go in during the 'Happy Birthday' song. Maximum audio cover.” Bill’s eyes gleamed with a tactical genius that was entirely his own. He enthusiastically traced a dotted line with his finger from the side gate, past a chalk drawing of a hopscotch court, and into the house itself. “Clean in, clean out.” “So our window is one verse of a badly sung nursery rhyme?” “Precisely. The 'present pile' is designated here, by the squiggly drawing of what looks like a sad pony.” Molly squinted. The pony did look tragically depressed, but its hollow core and the stick being waved by a nearby child-blob gave it away. A terrible, dawning realisation crept over her. “That's the piñata.” Bill’s face fell for a fraction of a second before hardening into a mask of professional respect. “A decoy? Cunning little devils. Don't worry, I've got the extraction vehicle prepped.” He jerked a thumb towards the back of the van, where miscellaneous tools and fast-food wrappers lay in a chaotic jumble around a single, gleaming wheel. A cold dread, sharp and familiar, settled in Molly's stomach. “You brought your unicycle again, didn't you?” Bill beamed, radiating a confidence that defied all logic. “It's got a basket.”