The van smelled of stale coffee and desperation. Molly unfolded the crinkled architect’s paper across her knees, revealing a detailed schematic of the Johnsons’ backyard. Her finger traced the weak point of the picket fence, then the blind spot behind the oak tree. The target, a mountain of presents wrapped in garish paper and topped with absurdly large bows, was highlighted in violent yellow. Beside her, Bill fiddled with the settings on a high-tech listening device, but he wasn’t aiming it at the patio. His gaze was locked on a limited-edition ‘Rocket Racer’ tricycle, its chrome handlebars gleaming like a holy relic under the afternoon sun. Molly tapped the paper emphatically, her voice a low hiss over the party’s distant, tinny music. “Remember the plan, Bill. We’re here for the payload, not the pedal-car.” Bill reluctantly tore his eyes away, his whisper thick with avarice. “Right, right. But we’re getting all of them, right?” Molly just sighed, circling the bouncy castle with a red pen. The exfiltration route, a mad dash through the precarious hedge maze, was always the trickiest part.