Molly slapped the blueprints onto the van’s dashboard. The paper was crinkled and smelled faintly of fruit punch. Bill nervously eyed the suburban house, where the distant, horrifying sound of a “Baby Shark” remix echoed. A sad-looking clown statue on the lawn seemed to be watching them with its one good eye. “Right,” Molly said, tapping a drawing of a bouncy castle. “Phase one: infiltration through the ‘Dragon’s Den.’ We have a two-minute window before the cake-cutting.” Bill winced. “What about the security? The toddler with the sticky fingers? He leaves prints everywhere.” She slid a pair of latex gloves across the seat. “That’s what these are for, genius. We go in, grab the loot, and we’re out before anyone can say ‘pass the juice box.’” Bill fumbled with the gloves, his hands sweating profusely. “And the escape route?” he mumbled, pulling one on with a wet snap. “Is it clear of the ‘drop-off’ parent? My cousin Brenda gets real chatty.” Molly slammed her palm on the horn. “The presents, Bill! Focus on the giant, shiny presents!”