Molly crouched behind a topiary shaped like a giraffe, peering over the hedge at the chaos unfurling in the yard across the street. Balloons bobbed. Clowns juggled. Somewhere, shrill squeals punctuated the air. She adjusted her beanie, nudging it lower over her eyebrows. Bill, carrying a notebook and emitting the subtle desperation of a man surrounded by sugar-high toddlers, joined her. “Alright, what’ve we got?” he asked, flipping open to a sketch of the backyard. “Looks like a fortress made of fondant.” “Oh, it’s a fortress alright.” Molly pointed her stolen pen cap toward the inflatable castle bouncing with kids. “See the pile near the patio? Gift central. Twenty, maybe thirty.” “Think any of them are bikes?” Bill asked, hopeful. “Don’t get greedy. We’re strictly present-sized tonight. Unless you fancy outrunning a ten-year-old on a new mountain bike while wearing this ridiculous outfit.” “Hey, you picked the matching dungarees,” he muttered, tugging at his own overalls. “How are we getting in?” “Through the ranks,” Molly said, grinning. “We blend. We mingle. We party.” Bill blinked at her, aghast. “You want to *mingle* with the kids?” She shrugged. “It’s the perfect cover. No security. Maximum cupcakes. And kids are so distracted by sugar, you could streak through in a clown suit and nobody’d notice.” Bill surveyed the yard. The noise level was approaching small-aircraft-taking-off. “Is there a plan B?” Molly flashed a conspiratorial grin. “Plan B is chaos. We arm ourselves with party favors. Backup plan? If caught, pretend we’re entertainment. You juggle. I make balloon animals.” “I can barely balance my checkbook.” “Then you’re already halfway to being a clown.” Bill snorted. “Fine. We go in, grab the loot, and run. How long do we have before someone notices?” “Depends on how many times you yell ‘abracadabra’. Let’s keep it to five minutes. We’re in and out, like parenting advice at a first birthday.” He sighed, straightening up. “Let’s do it.” Molly handed him a paper cone hat. “Wear this. Practical and festive.” He donned it, dignity crumbling. “I look like a festive unicorn.” “That’s the spirit.” They stalked across the street, morphing quickly into a pair of awkward, overage partygoers. No one blinked twice. Kids swarmed their knees, clutching plastic swords and screaming, “Pinata!” Molly ducked a stray cupcake, sidling ever closer to the gift pile. “You distract,” she muttered to Bill, nodding at the cluster of children eyeing the presents with predatory glee. “Be funny. I’ll bag.” Bill’s eyes widened. He took a deep breath and yelled, “Who wants to see me do a handstand?” Instantly, he was mobbed. Molly moved fast, hands deft and practiced. Paper, ribbons, glitter—none of it slowed her. Each box whisked away into the sack beneath the table. Suddenly, Bill toppled, landing in a pile of giggling children. Molly froze as a mother glanced their way. “Dance with me!” Bill hollered, looping a streamer around his head. The kids chanted “Dance! Dance!” and stomped their feet. Molly heaved the now-groaning sack over her shoulder. She winked at Bill, then tiptoed past the punch bowl, pausing to snag a juice box. “Party’s over,” she whispered, and together, they vanished—two ungainly, present-laden thieves, trailed only by confetti and the faintest whiff of birthday candles.