Molly crouched behind the inflatable dinosaur, eyes locked on the boisterous swirl of children. Her black leggings bore cupcake sprinkles from her reconnaissance, and Bill still had a remnant of streamer tangled in his hair. The backyard was an obstacle course of plastic chairs and manic toddlers. Neatly stacked next to the bounce house, the prize glimmered: a mountain of garishly wrapped presents. Bill nudged her with his foot. “You call this high security?” “They’re savage,” Molly whispered back, ducking as a Nerf dart zipped past. “I barely survived musical chairs.” Bill surveyed the chaos, stroking his nonexistent beard. “Distractions?” “A clown, two grandmothers, and a very hostile magician. Bill, this is a war zone.” He grinned, flashing a stolen party hat. “We go in after cake. Sugar crash is our window.” She eyed the pile again. “We’ll need a decoy. Or five. Think you can fake a tantrum?” “Already perfected my dramatic flop,” Bill replied, sinking theatrically to the grass and flailing his limbs like a muppet in distress. Molly suppressed a giggle. “You’re an artist.” “I know. Just promise me no glitter bombs.” “Not after last time. My couch still sparkles.” They exchanged a fist bump, eyes gleaming. Soon, the heist would begin.