Molly peered through the dusty window of their battered van, watching as clumps of helium balloons bobbled around the front lawn of 14 Maple Drive. “You realize,” she said, counting the streamers, “that we’re risking our freedom for a pile of polka-dotted gift bags filled with plastic dinosaurs?” “Hey,” Bill said, cracking his knuckles. “Last year’s haul at the Dorchester twins’ party netted at least four hundred bucks on eBay. These 8-year-olds have standards now. Legos, drones, remote-controlled sharks. Millie Galloway had a hoverboard last year.” Molly sighed. “Is our retirement plan really banking on Paw Patrol merchandise?” “You’d prefer banks? After what happened last time?” She glared. “You said you checked the silent alarm.” “And I did! How was I supposed to know it resets at midnight?” “Whatever.” Molly jerked her head toward the house. “Let’s focus. We have a two-hour window before anyone even thinks to notice the presents are gone.” Bill flipped open a pink notebook. “So plan A: You distract the magician, I slip in as ‘Uncle Dave’—” “Uncle Dave wears Crocs. You own, like, exactly no Crocs.” He looked wounded. “I have those green foam things—” “That you use in the shower? Not convincing. Besides, Uncle Dave’s bald.” He grinned, rummaging through a shopping bag, and produced a rubber skullcap. “Voila! Instant Dave,” he declared, jamming it on and looking instantly twenty years older and at least thirty percent sweatier. “Dear god,” Molly said. “All right, while you’re Dave, I mingle and scope the loot. What if a kid gets suspicious?” Bill shrugged. “I’ll hand out some of those stale circus peanuts, win ‘em over. Kids love me.” Molly arched an eyebrow. “Remember the Peterson birthday? The piñata incident?” “That was a malfunctioning bat! You try wrangling seven sugar-loaded gremlins.” She snorted. “Okay. We both enter. I’ll ride cover near the presents, take inventory. You distract with charming anecdotes about your favorite lawnmower.” He wilted. “Everyone likes The Toro story.” “I’ll loop you in when we’re ready. Signal is ‘the chicken dance.’ But if anybody catches on?” “We release the backup.” He pointed meaningfully to the dog cage in the backseat, where Muffin the pug snored soundly in a tutu. Molly blinked. “We’re using a dog as a distraction?” “Better than last time with the raccoon.” She shook her head, grabbing a party hat. “Let’s do this, ‘Dave’.” Bill tucked the cap into place. “After you, Aunt Carol.” Molly grinned, adjusting her fake pearl necklace. “If we get out of here with a single Minion toy, lunch is on me.” “And if we don’t,” Bill said, “at least there’s birthday cake.” “You hate cake.” “I love theft more.” She rolled her eyes. “Ready?” He straightened up. “Ready. Remember, we’re respectable family members. Not aging delinquents with sticky fingers.” She swatted his arm. “Speak for yourself, Grandpa Crocs.” Bill beamed. “Crocs: the only shoe you can wear to a heist and a barbecue. Come on.” Together, they strode towards the front yard, shoulders squared, smiles plastered on, and hearts pounding in anticipation of yet another caper that would be spoken of in hushed, horrified tones at playgrounds across the city.