Molly crouched on the picket fence, moonlight glinting off her black leather gloves. Across the yard, colorful balloons bobbed in the evening breeze, tethered to the low wooden gate. She scanned the windows of the house, noting the laughter drifting out into the night. Bill crept up behind her, breathing like an asthmatic raccoon. He held a small satchel of tools and fidgeted with the zipper as if it were a bomb. “Ready?” Molly asked, voice low and sharp. “Ready-ish,” Bill said, swallowing. “You sure kids’ parties are worth it? I mean, it’s teddy bears and toy cars. Doesn’t exactly scream ‘score of a lifetime.’” “It’s volume, Bill,” Molly replied. “A dozen kids, each with four or five gifts. That’s easily fifty to a hundred presents. Even if half are socks, we’re golden.” Bill nodded. “Okay, socks are fine. But what if someone sees us? What if a kid wakes up screaming?” Molly rolled her eyes. “Then we run. We don’t stick around to cuddle with crying toddlers. We’re professionals.” “Professional baby snatchers,” Bill muttered. Molly ignored him. “The side gate locks in thirty seconds. I’ve timed it. We slip through, cut the lights, and hit the living room table. They always pile them up there. Then out before anyone notices.” Bill glanced at the gate latch. “You think the babysitter’s inside?” “Either that or some distracted parents. Doesn’t matter. We have three minutes at most.” “Three,” Bill whispered, tapping his watch. “Molly, heart rate seventy-two to one-sixty in point two seconds. Calm me down.” Molly smirked. “Breathe. You’re fine. Now go, lockpick this latch.” Bill crouched beside the gate and lifted his black toolkit. He extracted a slender tool and fiddled with the lock. Click. He grinned. “See? Piece of cake.” “Move.” Molly dropped from the fence and slipped through the brief opening. Inside, the yard was a sea of plastic chairs and low tables, strewn with wrapping paper fragments. Through the sliding glass door, laughter and childish chaos pulsed. Molly placed her finger to her lips. Bill followed, eyes wide. “Lights?” Bill hissed. Molly snapped her fingers. “You.” He clicked off his flashlight. They approached the door. Molly tilted the handle. It creaked. “Shh.” She twisted it and slipped in. Bill ducked through after her. In the living room, a mountain of brightly wrapped boxes glowed under a single lamp. Cups of juice and half-eaten cake sat on the table. A rubber dinosaur and a balloon animal lay abandoned on the floor. Molly rubbed her hands. “Jackpot.” Bill’s eyes darted. “I can’t believe how many presents—” “Grab them.” Molly dove in, tossing gifts into her duffel bag. Bill followed, stuffing teddy bears and toy trucks. A sudden groan echoed from the hallway. A door creaked open. Molly froze. “Plan B?” Bill whispered, panic rising. Molly grinned, reaching into her belt. “Smoke bomb. On three—” Footsteps. Molly counted. “One… Two…” Bill flinched as the babysitter appeared. Molly pressed the button. A puff of colored smoke bloomed, alarms started wailing, and they bolted through the open door. In seconds they were gone, leaving behind chaos, children, and the sweet sound of frantic shrieking. Bill panted. “We did it?” Molly zipped her bag shut. “One hundred gifts,” she said. “See you at the rendezvous.” Bill nodded, ecstatic. “Best party crash ever.”