The faint, tinny melody of "Happy Birthday" drifted through the slightly ajar basement window, sounding less like a joyous anthem and more like a siren call. Molly, perched precariously on a stack of grimy boxes, adjusted her headlamp, its beam illuminating a cobweb the size of a small car. "You sure about this, Molly?" Bill whispered, his voice raspy from what Molly suspected was a week-long diet of stale crisps and existential dread. He was down by the window, peering in with the intensity of a hawk spotting a particularly plump field mouse. Molly rolled her eyes, a feat made difficult by the sheer weight of her questionable life choices. "Bill, darling, this isn't just 'about this.' This is about *Christmas in July*. This is about the ultimate score. Think of it as… a charity event. For us." "Charity?" Bill scoffed, his nose practically pressed against the grimy glass. "We're about to liberate a hoard of Barbie Dreamhouses and action figures from the clutches of… actual children. They’re going to cry, Molly." "A small price to pay for a lifetime of designer handbags," Molly countered, smoothing down her black jumpsuit. It was a little tight around the middle, a souvenir from that unfortunate doughnut incident last Tuesday. "Besides, they’ll still have their parents. And their entire existence.” Bill winced. "True. But what about the… cake? I saw sprinkles. And possibly a unicorn made of fondant." "Focus, Bill! Presents. Shiny, gift-wrapped promises of joy. We’re not here for dessert poisoning." Molly gestured with a gloved hand towards the main room of the basement, which seemed to be a riot of primary colours and overflowing gift bags. "See? A veritable cornucopia. We just need to be swift. Like ninjas. But slightly more prone to tripping over their own shoelaces." Bill chuckled, a dry, papery sound. "You've got the tripping part nailed, I'll give you that." "Har har," Molly deadpanned. "Now, the plan. You create a diversion. Something loud. Something… unexpected. Like a spontaneous rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ in operatic falsetto." Bill choked on air. "You want me to sing? Molly, my vocal range extends from a disgruntled bumblebee to a kettle reaching boiling point." "Exactly! They'll be too busy trying to figure out what alien creature has infiltrated their birthday bash to notice us rummaging through their loot." Molly beamed. "Brilliant, isn't it?" "And while I'm auditioning for the role of terrified marsupial," Bill ventured, his eyes glued to the scene inside, "what will you be doing?" "I," Molly announced, a mischievous glint in her eye, "will be performing a ballet of acquisition. A pirouette of pilfering. A… well, you get the idea. I'll be loading the getaway sack. And then we're out, before anyone even realizes their favorite superhero has mysteriously vanished." Bill sighed, a gust of air whistling through his teeth. "Just try not to step on any tiny plastic dinosaurs, alright? They can be surprisingly sharp at that scale." Molly grinned. "Only if they get in the way of a perfectly good remote-control monster truck, Bill. Only if they get in the way." She hefted a duffel bag, its canvas material straining slightly. "Ready for the greatest act of generosity you’ve ever witnessed? Generosity from our pockets to theirs, that is."