Molly crouched at the wrought iron gate, its rust nibbling rustlings in the night. The hum of party music drifted from behind the trimmed hedges. Balloons bobbed under pastel lights. Through the window she could see children clustered around neat piles of wrapped boxes. A forgotten cupcake lay smeared on the welcome mat. Bill adjusted his itchy mask and hustled back to her side. A server carrying a tray of soda cans passed by, unaware of the shadows eyeing the prize within. A half-eaten slice of cake sat abandoned on a paper plate. The air smelled of frosting and laughter. Molly tapped her gloved fingers against the gate. She barely breathed as the host opened the door again, releasing a gust of laughter. Bill glanced at the bulky sack strapped at his back. This was no average caper. They had studied the party registry, memorized the gift counts, and timed the sugar overload. It was children’s birthday, not high security vaults, but the emotional attachment in that room was treasure enough. They slipped inside with a practiced tuck and roll, the terrier whined and chased after them. They slid across the vinyl floor, narrowly avoiding a scuffle of confetti and plastic crowns. Molly pointed toward the table where the gifts sat sparkling under a lamp. Wrapping paper peaked through the gaps like precious artifacts. Bill dove behind a stack of plastic chairs, wincing as it scraped against his mask. Each step weighed heavy with adrenaline and guilt. They moved in tandem, counting the gifts in a silent code. They had roughly three minutes before the party games resumed, before the shrieks of joy turned into screams of confusion. They reached the table. The vibrant boxes waited like innocent bystanders. Molly grabbed the nearest, billowed it open with a flick, and stuffed the contraband inside her oversized coat. The sound of giggles drifted nearby. Bill shushed her with exaggerated finger to his lips. Then they executed the final leg of their plan: run out to the getaway van disguised as a clown car, leaving behind only chaos and empty chairs. Molly: "Alright, Bill, we’re in. How many gifts do we have?" Bill: "Seventeen that I can see, but watch out for the hidden ones." Molly: "Kids are unpredictable. One might start crying any second." Bill: "Better than them catching us red-handed with stolen toys." Molly: "Do you really think a sack this size will hold it all?" Bill: "It’s stuffed like a turkey, but we’ll manage, trust me." Molly: "Just wrap them in trash bags if you need more space." Bill: "You always have a solution for everything, don’t you?" Molly: "Only when it involves late-night heists and borrowed cake." Bill: "When we’re rich, we’ll open a toy store and call it Fortune." Molly: "Borrowed goods have a way of coming back to haunt you." Bill: "Haunt us, serenade us, maybe stage a puppet rebellion." Molly: "Just remember, if the kids notice, blame the cake fairy or a runaway balloon thief."