The beat-up sedan idled at the end of the quiet suburban street, a cloud of existential dread hanging over it much like the garish pink and blue balloons clinging to the mailbox of number 42. Molly squinted through a pair of cheap binoculars, her expression grim. In the passenger seat, Bill was smearing mustard on a stolen hot dog. “The target is Timothy, age seven,” Molly said, her voice a low, serious whisper. “The payload is on the patio. A card table, groaning under the weight of unopened loot.” Bill took a noisy bite of his hot dog. “The primary security is a golden retriever named Barnaby,” he mumbled, pointing with the half-eaten wiener. “He’s currently chasing a butterfly. Looks soft.” “Don’t be fooled, Bill. Fluffy is the new ruthless,” Molly snapped, lowering the binoculars. She unfolded a crinkled napkin, on which a crude map of the backyard was drawn in what appeared to be lipstick. “Our window is when they start ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’. All the kids will be blindfolded and disoriented. It’s the perfect moment of chaos.” “That’s a big bouncy castle,” Bill noted, his eyes glazing over with a childlike wonder Molly found deeply unprofessional. “I bet I could do a backflip in there.” “Focus, Bill. We’re not here for recreational bouncing.” She tapped the napkin. “I’ll create a diversion near the refreshment table. You move in, secure the presents, and haul them to the extraction vehicle.” “The van?” Bill asked, a smear of mustard on his chin. “It smells like old fish in there.” “It’s a tactical transport, not a five-star hotel. What about the cake?” “Negative on the cake,” Molly said, her patience fraying faster than the rope on the donkey pinata. “The objective is the presents only. Grab and go. No cake, no bouncy castle, no pony rides.” Bill’s eyes went wide. “Wait, they have ponies?”