They huddled behind the minivan, the scent of ozone and stale goldfish crackers thick in the air. “Security is tight,” Bill whispered, adjusting his ski mask. “One parent on cake patrol, another guarding the present table like it’s Fort Knox.” “Bill, the ‘patrol’ is a dad wearing a cone hat. Our biggest threat is a toddler with a juice box and no regard for personal space.” “The piñata is our window. When it breaks, chaos ensues. That’s our move.” “So you’re suggesting I create a diversion by getting whacked with a stick by a seven-year-old named Timmy?” “It’s a tactical sacrifice for the loot. I need the big box, the one with the drone.” “You can’t just grab the biggest present! It’s the first thing they’ll notice. We grab a few gift bags, blend in, and walk out calmly.” “Amateur hour. We need a signature. A calling card.” “A calling card? What are we going to do, leave a ransom note written in crayon?” “No,” Bill said, his eyes gleaming. “We go in loud. We sing ‘Happy Birthday.’ It’s the ultimate auditory smokescreen.”