The van smelled of stale coffee and regret. Molly peered through binoculars at the two-story house across the street, where a brightly coloured bouncy castle shuddered like a giant, wounded jellyfish. The sound of distant, shrieking children leaked through the closed windows. “The target is a soft touch,” she said, lowering the binoculars. “Security is minimal—one distracted mother and a dad manning the barbecue. The primary asset, a mountain of presents, is located in the living room, clearly visible through the bay window.” Bill, who was attempting to balance a sugar packet on its edge, looked up. “The big one with the dinosaur wrapping paper? I bet that’s a model rocket.” “Focus, Bill,” Molly snapped, snatching the binoculars back. “We’re not window-shopping, we’re executing. Phase one: infiltration. I’ve procured disguises.” “Disguises? For a kids’ party? What are we going as, the weird, childless neighbours?” “Better,” Molly said, a grim smile playing on her lips. “Clowns.” Bill’s face fell. “Clowns? Molly, no. Absolutely not. I have a thing about clowns. And small children. They’re sticky and they ask too many questions.” “It’s perfect camouflage,” she insisted. “We blend in. We bring a giant, fake gift, say we’re ‘Bippo and Zippo,’ and entertain the little blighters for five minutes. Then, during the chaos of the ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ game, we execute the grab.” “My nose will honk if I breathe too hard,” Bill whined. “People will try to pull on my oversized tie. I saw a documentary about the psychological toll of clowning.” “It’s a calculated risk for a major score. Think of the resale value on a pristine, unopened ‘Giga-Rex T-Rex.’ We’re talking triple-digit profits, Bill.” He sighed, slumping in his seat. “Fine. But do we at least get any cake?” Molly ignored him, her gaze fixed on the house. “Phase two begins at 3:15 p.m. That’s when the ice cream truck arrives. Maximum distraction.”