Molly peered from behind a towering stack of colorful boxes, her eyes darting between the garishly decorated yard and the detailed blueprint clenched in Bill’s hands. The laughter and music of the children's party floated through the air, a stark contrast to their tension-filled huddle under the canopy of a particularly robust oak tree. "Plan's simple," Bill muttered, tracing a route with his index finger on the paper. His voice was barely audible, dwarfed by a sudden eruption of giggles as a clown juggled nearby. Molly rolled her eyes, nodding. "Get in, grab the gifts, get out," she whispered, pulling her cap down further over her eyes. They watched as kids, adorned with party hats and faces painted like tigers and butterflies, flitted across the lawn, oblivious to the plotting intruders. Timing was crucial—the distraction provided by the piñata was their golden window. Molly adjusted her oversized clown shoes, a disguise that felt both ridiculous and essential. Bill checked his watch, then gave her a nod. She slipped through the bushes, her movements stealthy despite the cumbersome footwear, heading towards the pile of brightly wrapped presents that awaited their unlawful claim.