The blueprints were spread across the hood of Bill’s battered sedan, held down at the corners by empty coffee cups and a half-eaten bag of gummy worms. Molly traced a finger over the schematic of the Johnson residence, her brow furrowed in concentration. The target, a sprawling two-story in the suburbs, was circled in red pen. Bill leaned against the driver’s side door, nervously chewing a thumbnail. “Right,” Molly began, her voice a crisp, business-like whisper that belied the glittery unicorn sticker on her notebook. “The party is scheduled for 1400 hours. That’s our window. The adults will be preoccupied with the bouncy castle and the inevitable sugar-induced meltdowns. It’s the perfect cover.” Bill squinted at the diagram. “But the presents, Molls. They’re in the living room. It’s a thoroughfare. A kid could run in there at any second, looking for a juice box. We’re talking eyewitnesses whose only vocabulary consists of ‘no’ and ‘more.’” “That’s why speed is of the essence,” she retorted, tapping a spot marked ‘PRESENT TABLE’. “I will create a diversion.” Bill perked up. “What kind of diversion? The smoke bomb?” “Don’t be ridiculous, Bill. We’re not robbing a bank. It’s a five-year-old’s birthday party.” She sighed, as if explaining orbital mechanics to a particularly dense puppy. “I will be dressed as Sparkles the Party Clown. I will ‘accidentally’ trip near the punch bowl, causing a minor, non-toxic, but highly attention-grabbing splash. While every parent in a ten-foot radius is scrambling for paper towels, you will slip in, bag the presents, and exfiltrate through the back garden.” “The back garden? But the Johnsons have that guard dog.” “It’s a Corgi named Mr. Snuggles, Bill. I’ve seen him. He’s less of a guard dog and more of a furry ottoman that occasionally barks at its own tail. Just toss him one of these.” She pulled a small, squeaky rubber chicken from her pocket. “He’ll be occupied for hours. We’re not stealing jewels, we’re stealing a box of LEGOs, a dinosaur playset, and what looks like a very expensive chemistry set that will probably just make slime.” Bill looked from the squeaky chicken to the diagram, a flicker of something resembling confidence in his eyes. “Okay. So, I’m the grab-and-go guy. You’re the clown with a splashy exit strategy.” “Precisely,” Molly confirmed, packing up her notes with an air of finality. “And remember, Bill. No sudden movements. No eye contact with the children. We’re whispers in a hurricane of cake and chaos. We are ghosts. Ghosts who are about to be very, very rich in secondhand toys.”