Molly drummed her fingers on the kitchen table, her eyes fixed on the crude diagram of the birthday party layout. Bill leaned back in his chair, sipping lukewarm coffee from a chipped mug. "So the loot's gonna be under the Spider-Man themed tablecloth, right?" Bill asked, tracing a greasy finger across the sketch. Molly rolled her eyes. "It's not just about the location, Bill. Timing is everything. These suburban parents are like hawks during gift-opening time." "Hawks with Pinterest board brains and organic snack obsessions," Bill muttered. She chuckled. "Exactly. We've got a ten-minute window when they're doing the cake ceremony. Kids will be distracted, parents will be positioning their smartphones for the perfect shot." Bill scratched his beard. "How many presents we talking about?" "Surveillance says at least twenty. Mostly wrapped in that thick metallic paper. Looks like a bunch of LEGO sets, some electronic gadgets. Quality stuff." "Nice," Bill grinned. "Kid's turning seven, right? Prime age for cool gifts." Molly spread out a detailed timeline. Colored sticky notes marked potential complications. "We'll be dressed as party entertainers. I've got a clown costume, you've got the magician getup." "I hate the magician outfit," Bill complained. "The ruffled shirt makes me look like a rejected Eurovision performer." "Would you rather wear the clown nose?" she retorted. They studied the diagram in silence for a moment. The party would be in a suburban backyard, bouncy castle already inflated, parents milling about with plastic champagne flutes. "Entry point is through the side gate," Molly continued. "We blend in, do our performance routine, create a minor distraction during cake cutting, then sweep the presents while everyone's attention is elsewhere." Bill nodded. "Classic misdirection. Works every time." "And remember," Molly said, pointing a finger, "we're in and out in twelve minutes. Maximum. No lingering, no unnecessary risks." "Twelve minutes to make seven-year-old Jimmy's birthday a complete disaster," Bill chuckled. "Not a disaster. Just... redistributing joy." Molly winked. Their planning continued, meticulously mapping out every potential scenario. Costume details, backup escape routes, getaway vehicle positioning - nothing was left to chance. "One more thing," Bill said, serious for a moment. "If anything goes sideways, we bail. No heroics." Molly extended her fist. "Deal." They bumped knuckles, a silent agreement between two professionals about to commit the most ridiculous heist of their careers - stealing birthday presents from a children's party. Just another Thursday for Molly and Bill.