The dashboard clock mocked them with the slow, rhythmic ticking of a timer set to Judgment Day. Molly stared at the satellite feed, visualizing the dismantling of the suburban perimeter as if it were a set of complex LEGOs. This was the Chadwick gathering, a logistical nightmare of giant inflatable bounce houses and wrapping paper of suspiciously expensive quality. Bill sat beside her, meticulously folding his bandana into a pocket square, staring at the target with a cold, calculated intensity that usually preceded bank heists, though today it preceded the theft of unopened dolls and plastic cars. It was a heist of moral bankruptcy, but the payout for unopened electronics was undeniable. "Delivery in four minutes," he noted. "Trust the plan." "Perfect." She pushed the door open, stepping into the stifling heat of the afternoon to abscond with the dreams of a six-year-old. "Let’s rock and roll."