Under a flickering midnight streetlight, Molly quickly crouched beside a wooden gate. Dressed in black clothing, she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Bill shifted impatiently, gripping a bag of tools. The night air smelled sugar and chaos drifting from the party inside. They exchanged a conspiratorial grin and rolled forward like burglars. A chirping radio signal crackled as they scaled the fence. Their boots landed softly on the soaked grass. Lights pulsed through windowpanes above. Neither doubted their mission. Molly worked at the lock. Bill squatted, eagerly whispering countdowns. The hush of the street deepened their heartbeat. Molly: This window looks flimsy. We'll slip inside nab every gift bag before cake is served. Bill: Are you sure the kids won't chase us with foam swords? Last year they cornered a mime. Molly: We'll distract them with noise makers and cloud of confetti, then vanish like phantom ninjas in tutus. Bill: And you remembered the thermal gloves, right? No chocolate prints. Molly: Of course. I wrapped gloves in glitter. Who expects sparkly burglars? Bill: Genius. Party time starts at seven, but we'll be gone by seven oh five. Now hand me the crowbar disguised as a balloon pump.