“Right, the target is the Johnson residence,” Bill whispered, peering through binoculars at a cartoonish bouncy castle. “Entry point is the poorly guarded patio door. Our objective: every wrapped gift in the vicinity.” “Bill, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Molly asked, her voice tight with disbelief. “Because I’m seeing a seven-year-old in a superhero cape guarding the presents like a tiny, furious Cerberus.” “He’s a child, Molly. A simple diversion will suffice. I have a whoopee cushion.” “No! We cannot deploy a whoopee cushion on a child. It’s unethical.” “What if we pretend to be clowns? Parents love clowns.” “Parents hate clowns, Bill. It’s a universal truth. We need a new approach.” “Fine. New approach. You create a distraction by challenging him to a three-legged race. I’ll grab the loot.” “With what? My other leg is attached to him! It’s a terrible plan, Bill.” “Do you have a better one?” “Yes. We go get ice cream and forget this whole thing. That’s a much better plan.”