Molly flattened herself against the chain-link fence, the rough metal snagging her favourite black polo neck. Bill, a mountain of a man attempting to look inconspicuous, was struggling to fit a pair of bolt cutters into a ridiculously small rucksack. “Focus, Bill,” Molly whispered, her eyes fixed on the bouncy castle in the distance. A rainbow monstrosity, it pulsed with the manic energy of a dozen sugar-fuelled children. “The objective is the pile of presents,” she continued, tracing a path with her finger. “It’s by the face-painting station. We go in, we blend, we grab, we go. No heroes, no tears.” Bill finally wrestled the bolt cutters free with a grunt. He peered over the fence, his face a mask of grim determination that was slightly spoiled by the dab of chocolate icing on his chin. “Are we sure about this?” he rumbled. “It feels… wrong.” Molly patted the bolt cutters. “Bill, in this economy, a six-year-old’s unboxed action figure is a more stable investment than gold. Now, cut the fence. And for God’s sake, wipe your face. You look like you’ve already been to the party.”