Molly crouched behind the garden fence, binoculars trained on the balloon-festooned house. Bill slouched beside her, eating a candy bar he'd pilfered from a nearby convenience store. "Those presents look magnificent," Molly whispered. "Designer toys, electronics—rich kids get the good stuff." Bill licked chocolate from his fingers. "How many security cameras did you count?" "Just two. One above the front door, another covering the back patio." "Perfect. We can enter through the basement window during the clown performance." Molly lowered her binoculars, frowning. "You don't feel bad stealing from children?" "Remember last month's rent disaster? Besides, these kids have everything." "True. Did you see that mountain of gifts? Obscene display of capitalism." Bill unfolded the crudely drawn blueprint. "We'll need disguises. Parent volunteers, maybe?" "Brilliant! Nobody questions adults carrying boxes at parties." "Fifteen minutes in and out. Fill the bags, exit through the side gate." Molly grinned. "These birthday brats won't even notice until cake time." "By then we'll be halfway to the pawn shop." "Bill, this might be our easiest job yet." "Or our most pathetic." "Potato, potahto. Let's steal from some six-year-olds."