The rain pattered against the window of Molly's dimly lit apartment as she unfurled a crude map on the coffee table. Bill hunched over, pushing aside empty pizza boxes and energy drink cans to get a better view. "So there it is," Molly said, tapping her chipped nail polish against the paper. "The Henderson residence. Twenty-seven presents minimum, according to the Facebook RSVP list." Bill squinted at the drawing. "You're telling me this is our big score? A six-year-old's birthday party?" "Not just any six-year-old," Molly corrected, straightening her posture with pride. "Little Timmy Henderson, whose father is that tech CEO who gives his kid everything." Bill ran his hand through his thinning hair. "I thought we were hitting jewelry stores and galleries, not stealing Transformers and teddy bears." "Have you seen what parents spend on gifts these days?" Molly's eyes widened with excitement. "We're talking gaming systems, tablets, robot dogs, and designer clothes. Kids don't play with sticks anymore, Bill." "So what's the plan? Walk in dressed as clowns?" Molly shook her head. "Too obvious. We go in as caterers." "I can't cook," Bill protested. "Nobody expects caterers to cook at the venue," Molly explained with exaggerated patience. "We just need to look the part, then slip into the gift room during the magic show." Bill's face contorted. "There's a magic show?" "Some guy named The Great Zamboni at three o'clock. That's our window," Molly said, circling a spot on her map. "While all eyes are on the rabbit in the hat, we're stuffing pillowcases with merchandise." Bill leaned back, crossing his arms. "What about the other parents? Won't they notice two strangers loading up on presents?" "Parents at these things are either on their phones or drinking the free wine," Molly countered. "Trust me, they're not paying attention." "And the kids?" "Hopped up on sugar and excitement. They won't notice anything." Bill drummed his fingers on the table. "What about cameras?" "Suburban house party, not Fort Knox," Molly said dismissively. "They've got a Ring doorbell we'll avoid." "I don't know about this, Molly," Bill sighed. "Stealing from kids feels... wrong." Molly leaned forward. "We're stealing from entitled parents who are teaching those kids terrible values. Think of us as Robin Hoods of childhood development." "That's a stretch." "Fine, then think about the money," Molly insisted. "We fence the goods, split fifty-fifty." Bill stared at the ceiling. "If we get caught, we'll be the laughingstock of the criminal community." "If we get caught stealing from actual children, we deserve to be laughed at," Molly agreed. "But we won't get caught." Bill finally nodded, resignation settling across his features. "What time does this heist of the century go down?" "Party starts at one," Molly said with a grin. "And bill, wear black pants. Caterers always wear black pants." "This is the stupidest thing we've ever done," Bill muttered. "No," corrected Molly, rolling up her map. "The stupidest thing was when we tried to steal that parrot. This is just the second stupidest."