The blueprints were spread across the hood of Bill’s battered sedan, weighed down at the corners by empty coffee cups. Molly traced a finger along the garden path of the Johnson residence, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Okay, Bill, focus. The objective is the presents. The target is a five-year-old’s birthday party. This is a precision operation.” Bill snorted, popping a piece of gum into his mouth. “Precision? Moll, we’re talking about a bouncy castle and a toddler with a sugar high. What’s the plan, walk in and ask for a goodie bag?” “Better,” Molly said, tapping the diagram of a large oak tree. “We use this. It provides perfect cover. You’ll be the lookout from here. I need you to monitor the perimeter, specifically the parents. They’re the real security. They’re armed with cameras and passive-aggressive small talk.” “What am I looking for?” “Any parent who looks like they’ve had enough. They’re the wild cards. The ones who might actually help us escape out of sheer boredom. Also, watch for the designated ‘snack dad’. When he goes for the seventh plate of mini-quiches, that’s our window.” “Our window for what?” “The extraction. I’ll be on the ground, blending in. I’ve got the perfect disguise.” Molly held up a bright pink, slightly-too-small party hat. Bill stared at it. “You’re going to wear that? You’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” “Exactly! I’ll be ‘Aunt Carol’, the slightly eccentric relative who loves kids a little too much. I’ll get close to the present pile, engage the birthday girl with some slight-of-hand. A disappearing quarter, maybe. While she’s distracted, I’ll start bagging the goods.” “How? You can’t just walk off with a mountain of wrapped boxes.” “That’s where you come in. The escape vehicle is the ice cream truck. You know, the one that parks three blocks away? At 2:15 p.m., you bring it around. The jingle is our signal. The sound of that tune is Pavlovian for children. They’ll stampede, creating the perfect diversion.” Bill rubbed his temples. “So let me get this straight. I’m going to steal an ice cream truck, drive it to a cul-de-sac, and play ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ while you, dressed as a deranged aunt, steal a pile of presents from a child under the guise of a magic trick?” Molly beamed. “See? It’s foolproof. We’ll be legends, Bill. The Grinch who stole birthday parties. Now, do you have the burlap sacks?” “Burlap? What are we, potato thieves?” “It’s rustic, Bill. It adds a layer of folksy charm. No one suspects a thief with a burlap sack. Now, get in the car. Operation: Party Favour is a go.”