Molly flattened herself against the garden wall, peering through the trellis. Inside, a disco ball fractured light across a dozen screaming children. “Right,” she hissed. “The objective is the pile of presents by the bouncy castle. Bill, are you sure you’ve got the gear?” Bill patted his oversized, bright yellow trench coat. “Of course. A classic. Parents will just think I’m a particularly enthusiastic uncle.” “An uncle with bolt cutters and a duffel bag?” “Precisely,” Bill beamed. “No one suspects the jolly.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Fine. My role is the distraction. I’ll go in and challenge the birthday boy to a dance-off. That should create enough of a ruckus for you to grab the loot.” “A dance-off?” Bill scoffed. “Are you sure you’re up to it? The robot is your signature move.” “The robot is a classic,” Molly snapped. “Now, get into position. And for heaven’s sake, try not to look like you’re casing the joint.” “Molly, darling,” Bill whispered, adjusting his coat. “I am a professional. I never look like I’m casing the joint. I simply have an aura of… focused jollity.”