Molly hunched over the schematic, a crayon drawing of 123 Maple Lane that smelled of orange juice and betrayal. The van’s interior lights cast long shadows across her face as she detailed the operation. Infiltration would be via the bouncy castle in the backyard, a noisy but effective vector. The primary sensory diversion was scheduled for 3:15 PM: “Pin the Tail on the Donkey.” That was their window. She pointed a grubby fingernail at a cluster of gift-bagged squares on the diagram. The payload. Bill, her accomplice, listened intently, chewing on a toothpick. He’d been casing the joint all morning, posing as a dog walker. He knew the layout, the guard rotations, the weak points. He finally spoke, his voice a low rumble. "But the glitter paper is a forensic nightmare." Molly didn’t even look up from the drawing. She simply reached into her duffel bag and produced a roll of industrial-strength lint rollers, holding them up like a trophy. "I've packed the industrial-grade lint rollers." The plan was flawless.