Molly unfurled the blueprints across the dashboard of their rust-pocked van. The schematics, meticulously hand-drawn on a stolen restaurant napkin, detailed every threat: sprinklers, a territorial chihuahua, and a roaming clown with unnervingly large shoes. Her finger, tipped with a chipped black nail, traced a route from the gnome-guarded birdbath to the primary infiltration point: a doggy door. Bill, meanwhile, was attempting to balance a party blower on his nose, which emitted a sad, deflating wheeze. “Bill, are you even listening? This is the critical phase.” He snapped to attention, the blower dropping. “Absolutely. Primary objective: seize the frosted animal crackers, then the presents.” Molly sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose beneath her binoculars. The main prize, a mountain of brightly wrapped packages, sat precariously near the bouncy castle. She’d drawn a tiny skull and crossbones over the pile. This job, she thought with the grim certainty of a professional, was going to be harder than the national mint job. It was definitely going to be stickier.