Molly spread the blueprints across the kitchen table, her finger tracing the layout of the community center's gymnasium. Outside, children's laughter echoed like tiny alarm bells. "The presents are stacked by the gift table," she muttered, studying the floor plan with the intensity of a general planning an invasion. Bill walked in carrying two oversized teddy bears, their fur matted from the costume rental place. He dropped them unceremoniously onto the couch. "I found the perfect disguise," he announced proudly. "Those are ridiculous," Molly said, barely glancing up. "Exactly. No one suspects a ridiculous teddy bear," Bill replied, grinning at his own logic. Molly sighed and returned to the blueprints. The security consisted entirely of one overwhelmed parent and a malfunctioning camera that pointed at the snack table. She'd already confirmed this through three hours of reconnaissance disguised as a concerned grandmother. They would enter at three o'clock precisely, during the piñata chaos when every adult's attention would be focused on preventing sugar-induced violence among six-year-olds. Bill would create a distraction near the entrance while Molly stuffed the presents into a laundry basket marked "Decorations." By four o'clock, they'd be gone with enough toys to supply a small black market operation for months.