They crouched behind inflatable giraffes at the backyard’s edge. Fairy lights twinkled on plastic flamingos under a “Happy Fifth Birthday!” banner. Laughter wafted through the open window. Molly checked her watch: twenty-two minutes past nine. Molly: "The host turned on disco lights right when the sugar coma set in. We have precisely ten minutes before someone notices missing gifts." Bill: "I swapped my ski mask for a squeaky clown nose. They’ll never suspect the balloon-animal delivery guy is from the glittery underworld stage." Molly: "Remember the kid named Tommy? His mom knitted thermals with GPS trackers. We need the jammers, or we’ll follow them to the parking lot." Bill: "Got the jammer inside my left boot. But I also covered our tracks with glitter confetti from last gig. Police hate sparkly evidence." Molly: "Are you sure you grabbed the thermal paste? We need to disable the cake blower before anyone notices molten frosting seeping onto the floor." Nervous giggles floated from the living room. The scent of frosting and cheap balloons filled the air. They flexed their gloved fingers in unison. Bill: "I thought that was toothpaste. But okay, the one labeled ‘Not for brushing’ is safely in my glove compartment. Let’s roll very smooth." Molly: "What about the dog? That chihuahua sniffs out burglars like a heat-seeking missile. We can’t have fur flashing our thermal gauges tonight. Please." Bill: "I’ve got the pepper treats. A couple tosses, and he’ll be too busy sneezing to bark. We win the silent award, partner." Molly: "Okay. After gifts, we hit the piñata, grab extra sugar pellets and cash from the punch bowl stash. Best haul ever, hands-down seriously." Bill: "Half the parents are outside smoking. We’ll sneak out the back door with full sacks before reinforcements show. Hope the fence is unlocked." Bill tapped his earbud, adjusting their earpiece so only they could hear the muffled beeping from the jammer. He leaned toward Molly, their shadows merging in the glow of the patio lights. A stray balloon bounced off his shoulder; Molly flicked it into a bush. They grinned. Molly: "We’ll need to re-bag the gifts in our own wrapping paper. I brought spider-web foil and googly-eye ribbons. Totally inconspicuous, genius move again." Bill: "Alright. Three minutes left. That kid just screamed, she saw Santa—or a hoodie. That confusion is our ally. Stay sharp, and quiet. Always." Molly: "Got it. On three we move. One, two... kids are starting the magic trick, which is code for sugar meltdown. Now! Go! Boom!" They exchanged a nod as muffled toddler squeals signaled chaos inside. Slipping from behind the giraffes, they heaved sacks bulging with colorfully wrapped loot. The moon cast long shadows across the lawn as they made their escape, laughter trailing behind them like a stolen whisper. Bill: "Don’t forget the getaway hoedown music. Nothing loosens parents faster than a surprise kazoo jam at midnight, followed by the whoopee cushion symphony." Molly: "We should leave a thank-you note signed ‘Santa’s secret agents.’ It’ll baffle the detectives and boost our reputation in the heist community worldwide."