Molly fiddled with the lockpicks, a constellation of tiny tools glinting under her headlamp. Bill paced, his boots squeaking on the cracked linoleum of the community center basement. Balloons bobbed lazily against the ceiling, a stark contrast to the tension thickening the air. “Are you sure about this, Moll?” Bill asked, his voice a hushed rumble. Molly snorted. “Bill, you’re starting to sound like your grandma. Of course I’m sure. We’ve been over the plan a hundred times.” “A hundred times while perched on a crate of barely-ripe bananas in a refrigerated truck, yes. This is different. This is…” he waved a hand vaguely, “this is a children's party.” “Don't tell me you're getting cold feet because of a bunch of sticky-fingered ankle biters.” Bill stopped pacing and fixed her with a worried stare. “They’ll be reinforced by cake-induced sugar highs.” Molly glanced at the door adorned with crayon drawings of lopsided clowns and dancing animals. “Relax, Big Guy, we'll be in and out before they even open the pin the tail on the donkey game. Besides, think of the loot.” She gestured grandly at the overflowing gift table crammed with brightly-wrapped boxes. “We could be sipping piña coladas on a beach in Bali by next week.” “Bali?” “Okay, maybe not Bali.” Molly sighed. “But definitely not scrubbing toilets at the diner.” Bill grumbled something about the unfairness of life and returned to pacing. Molly rolled her eyes. This was always how it was with Bill. Capable, sure, but a nervous wreck before every job. She grinned, her fingers finally finding purchase in the lock. A click resonated through the silence, followed by the satisfying thunk of the deadbolt retracting. Molly pushed the door open a crack, squeezing through the narrow gap. "Coming, Grumpy Gus?" The community center buzzed with the muted cacophony of children's laughter and chattering adults. Molly and Bill melted into the shadows, a couple of shadows amongst shadows in a room bathed in rainbow-colored streamers. Bill clutched Molly’s arm, whispering urgently. “I saw the cake. It’s a three-tiered monstrosity covered in sprinkles..." Molly silenced him with a glare. Focus, she reminded herself. Presents. Loot. Piña coladas. Maybe not Bali. The air smelled of spilled juice boxes and unboxed toys. "Alright, here's the plan," she murmured, consulting a crumpled blueprint tucked in her pocket. "You grab the stuffed animals, I'll handle the tech gadgets. Bill's eyes widened. "Those aren’t toys, Moll. Those are… those are valuable vintage dolls.” She shrugged. "Hey, a connoisseur can appreciate a well-dressed collectible." "I'm pretty sure it’s the vintage because they smell musty.” “Don’t worry,” Molly said, waltzing confidently towards the gift mountain. “We’ll make a murder on eBay.”