Molly drummed her fingers against the coffee shop table, watching steam rise from her untouched latte. The plans for Little Timothy Thompson's seventh birthday party were spread before her, courtesy of the party planning company's embarrassingly weak firewall. "Look," Bill whispered, jabbing his finger at the blueprint. "They're keeping all the presents in the garage before the big reveal. Amateur hour." Molly rolled her eyes at her partner's enthusiasm. The sunlight catching his bald head made him look like an excited egg. She studied the neighborhood layout, noting the perfectly positioned oak tree that would provide cover. "We're really stealing from children now?" she muttered, though her hands were already sketching entry points on the napkin. Bill leaned back, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. "You saw the gift registry. Three PS5s, Molly. Three. These aren't children, they're tiny oligarchs." The corner of Molly's mouth twitched as she calculated the timing. The bounce house would provide excellent noise cover, and parents would be too busy documenting every moment on their phones to notice anything amiss.