Molly tapped a greasy pizza box with a laser pointer, the red dot wobbling over a crude map of a suburban backyard. “Right. The target is little Timmy’s seventh birthday party. Intel says the parents are serving pizza at 14:00 hours. That’s our window.” Bill fidgeted with the strap of his nylon windbreaker. “Are we really doing this, Molls? Stealing from a seven-year-old? It feels like a new low, even for us.” “It’s not a low, it’s a soft target,” she countered, her voice sharp. “High concentration of unsecured assets in a confined space. Minimal security. The only guard is a golden retriever named Barnaby, and my sources say he’s a notorious treat-hound.” “What kind of presents are we talking?” Bill leaned in, his interest piqued. “Is it the good stuff, or just socks and educational board games?” “Focus, Bill. The payload is secondary to the principle. We hit the gift table during the peak chaos phase: ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey.’ While the children are blindfolded and disoriented, we make our move.” Bill squinted at the map. “What about the bounce house? That thing looks like a death trap. A brightly colored, flaccid death trap.” “Exclusion zone,” Molly said firmly. “We stay clear of the Castle of Bouncing. Too many variables. Now, extraction is key. We grab the bags and make for the pre-positioned getaway vehicle.” “The sedan?” “It’s a nondescript sedan, Bill. It blends in.” She slid the pointer over to a drawing of a car. “Now, the only real wrinkle is the parents. They’re the wildcards.” “What if they ask questions? What if they want to know why two adults are making off with ten brightly wrapped gift bags?” Molly clicked off the laser pointer and a slow, wicked grin spread across her face. “That’s where the diversion comes in. You, my friend, will be in charge of creating a plausible, yet distracting, emergency.” Bill’s eyes went wide. “Me? What kind of emergency?” “Run into the middle of the party screaming that you saw a bee,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Not a wasp, a bee. Parents hate bees near their kids. They’ll all lose their minds. While they’re flailing and searching for a single, imaginary insect, I’ll be loading the loot. It’s foolproof.”