The inside of the van smelled faintly of stale fries and desperation. A single, bare bulb swung from the ceiling, casting a jaundiced light on a map of suburban paradise that was actually a drawing on the back of a pizza box. Molly, her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun that screamed ‘military librarian,’ stabbed a finger at a crude rectangle labeled ‘PRESENTS.’ “The primary objective is the gift table, located adjacent to the bouncy castle. We call it ‘The Bounce Zone.’” Bill, slouched in the passenger seat, noisily crunched a pork rind. “You call it ‘The Bounce Zone’? I’m calling it ‘The Vomit Gauntlet.’ Have you seen a six-year-old after three slices of cake and a juice box? It’s a biohazard waiting to happen.” Molly ignored him, her eyes tracing the perimeter she’d drawn in red crayon. “Distraction is key. Bill, you’re on clown duty. Jingles. He’s the wild card.” “What am I supposed to do, challenge him to a balloon animal-off? I can’t make a poodle. My giraffes look like deflated snakes with glandular issues.” “You won’t have to,” she said, her voice sharp. “At 14:00 hours, you ‘accidentally’ release the piñata. That will draw all assets—children and parents—to the back yard. It creates a ten-minute window.” Bill wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans. “And you’ll grab the presents?” “I’ll initiate the extraction. The biggest risk is auditory. The crinkle of wrapping paper is a dead giveaway. We need duffel bags. Lots of duffel bags.” He shuddered, thinking of the brightly colored parcels. “What if we get a doll that cries? Or one of those dinosaurs that roars? Our cover’s blown, Molls. We’ll be trampled by a horde of screaming seven-year-olds wielding tiny plastic swords.” Molly finally looked up, a glint of manic determination in her eyes. “Then we don’t get talking toys. We only grab the quiet ones. It’s called asset selection, Bill. Try to keep up.”