Molly watched the chaos unfold through binoculars. A small army of screaming children, high on sugar and entitlement, swarmed a bouncy castle in the back garden. Their target was a mountain of colourfully wrapped presents sitting precariously on a picnic table. Bill, meanwhile, was trying to force himself into a cartoonishly large rabbit costume. “I look ridiculous,” he grunted, his voice muffled by the fluffy head. “It’s a five-year-old’s birthday party, not a black-tie gala,” Molly whispered, lowering her binoculars. “You blend in. In ten minutes, you’re going to trip over your own feet, sending a wave of panic through those little monsters. While they’re distracted, I’ll be behind the picnic table with a recycling sack.” Bill finally managed to zip up the suit. “And then what? We just walk away carrying a giant bag of presents?” “No,” Molly said, patting a large, empty box. “We put the sack in the box. It’s a gift. For us. Now get in there, Bugsy. Go cause a scene.”