The dingy apartment buzzed with nervous energy as Molly paced in front of the corkboard, photos of the García residence pinned meticulously beside a child's birthday invitation. "A six-year-old's birthday party? Seriously?" Bill slouched on the threadbare couch, flipping a coin between his fingers. Molly tapped the invitation. "Fifteen kids means thirty presents minimum. Rich neighborhood. Do the math." Bill sighed, catching the coin mid-flip. "We've hit jewelry stores and art galleries, now we're stealing stuffed animals?" "And gaming consoles, tablets, and whatever else bougie parents buy to outdo each other." Molly sketched a crude diagram of the backyard. "We slip in during the clown act. Everyone's distracted." Outside, rain streaked the windows as Bill moved beside her, studying the layout. His fingers traced the penciled route to the gift table. "The things we do when we're broke," he muttered, shaking his head. Molly's lips curled into a smile. "Just think of us as reverse Santa Claus." "In May?" "Nobody expects reverse Santa in May." She tossed him a ski mask. "That's our competitive advantage."