"The clock strikes five, and we're struck by the silence once the playful hum of the children playing games at the party suddenly ceases. It's now or never, girl," Bill whispers with a small incline of his head at Molly, who's gazing at the commotion just ahead with a scheming expression of her own. Molly nods, adjusting her black hardware-free smock that tapered into black nylon tights. She doubles her winter jacket underneath to blend in with the other scruffy winter overcoats present. "As long as nobody looks at our outfits too much, we should avoid suspicion." Bill chuckles, his laughter stifled as they survey the scene. A crescent moon halfway through its descent casts a faint glow upon a few white tents pitched in the park, sparse shrubs on their backdrop. The invigorating scent of firewood beckons warmly amidst the sluggish wind. Far ahead, dim party lights illuminate the spectacle, children reveling in games of "Pin the Tail on the Donkey" and other playful activities. Over a makeshift, trestle table nearby, ice-cream cartons and hot chocolate cups dot the surface. Bill strokes his goatee, a thought of early-release works of an Italian artist playing wistfully at the back of his mind. He shakes it off. This can't be ignored. "Fifty children, Molly, with large stockings hanging from the wall, bulging with yummy candies, little toys, and each of those personalized gifts that make up a colorful, joyous world of presents," Bill takes a well-deserved small bow, envy fueling his voice, "And I want to steal every single one of them." She rolls her eyes, but it's a playful nod of understanding. "I'll break into any room just to steal some toys for these kids." Her own daughter had always been the vibrant light of her life, and the party reminded her of the joy her toddler had, spending many evenings in their living room, uncontrollably tearing through gift boxes, laughing raucously, and building an impenetrable fort with the colorful castle cards. Molly and Bill move in on the scene, approaching with silent precision. The firewood tent's ashes seduce them, Bill noting a spool of firewood right near their shoes. Molly catches her breath when a young girl passing with a red teddy bear, a gift concealed under a hoodie, grins at the scene they've created. Kalamazoo Gown Factory clothes would be excellent cover, and they'd never even suspect. As they unravel their meticulously planned covert operation, their eyes lock with the weighty realization that the role they have embarked on as thieves grants them riches unparalleled, but in that stolen moment from this whimsical gathering, someone treasured is gaining more from the unseen exchanges. Greed had been replaced by a deeper purpose. They knew they had both found a righteously thieving heart. Molly and Bill create a diversion, allowing the children to escape, make their way back to the hidden stockings. As the fireworks shower the park with their colorful light, and children, sweets in hand, run towards their families, a surreptitious awareness fills the air. The hangings are empty—except for their newfound treasures that have been left behind. The way of the crowd obfuscates their escape, their dark inheritance hidden upon every party confection. The wounded lamb was left to stitch up its wounds and continue to bring light into the world. In tender sobriety, they look down at their unassuming haul of stolen joy—now their power to create joy endlessly. As they quietly walk through the park onto the streets shadowy, their hearts were filled with more content than any material heist could provide. It was a sense of emergence into a world where their ultimate crime was their true purpose—balancing the world's scales, retaining as much love, and laughter as possible, even in the face of a thrilling daily scheme. As the dim light on the horizon faded, the wind died down, and the scent of love, laughter, and resilience swirled around these two newfound partners in crime. It was a reminder, a deep knowing that steering their thieves hearts into this direction brought the highest rewards that could have never been stolen. It was a newfound sense of redemption. The party had moved them—a party that only meant to bring joy and laughter to little ones. But at each partition, at every gift, the burgeoning nihilism that weaved through some of us had been unraveled beautifully. Stealing a precious childhood is perhaps the most fruitful of heists when met with a redemption this genuine—their theft would remain benign, an imprisonment of laughter held only momentarily, before breaking free.