Night had fallen over Sunnyvale, but a single string of pastel balloons around the backyard fence shimmered under the porch light. Behind a cluster of bushes, two shadowy figures crouched close enough to bump elbows. The distant sound of children’s laughter and a pinata cracking open echoed through the lawn. Molly checked the catcher’s ladder leaning against the hedge, her heartbeat matching the pace of the party tunes. Bill adjusted his utility belt, loaded with sticky tack, mini grappling hooks, and a cupcake-snatching claw. They exchanged a silent nod. This was it: Operation Piñata Heist. Molly: Check that fenceboard again. It's loose, but I'll wedge the ladder behind the rose bush. Remember, no alarm system on this side, just motion sensors. Bill: Motion sensors? Great. I love subtle surprises at midnight. Got the infrared glasses? We can't have you hugging a piñata instead of scanning for beams. Molly: They're in the pouch. Do me a favor and toss me one of those carrot sticks from the appetizer table. I'm starving and brain hungry. Bill: Carrots? You're a thief not a bunny. But sure, if it keeps you from nibbling on a five year old’s Barbie head. Molly: Focus. First, we disable the music box. That way the partygoers won't suspect when the cake tune cuts out mid-chorus. Bill: Got it. After that, we storm the gift table like sugar-fueled ninjas, snatch every shiny package, and vanish before they realize their loot is gone. Molly: Don't forget the escape route through the doggy door. Tiny Timmy's terrier is out at obedience school. Perfect. Bill: How am I supposed to fit through that? I have the flexibility of a garden gnome. Molly: You roll like a coin, remember? Just tuck your limbs. I've seen weasels pull off yoga positions with less give. Bill: Wonderful. After that, we load the haul into my duffel, then head to your van. Are there enough gummy bears for celebration? Molly: Only if you count three handfuls per person. And bring napkins. I don't want sticky prints on the FedEx uniforms we nicked. Bill: FedEx uniforms? We're wearing stolen jackets again? Last time I was mistaken for package guy and asked to redirect mail. Molly: Exactly. Getting cozy under the radar is our trademark. Plus, I got a badge scanner app for 'employee verification.' No one questions Alexa. Bill: All right, Gadget Girl. Let's roll. Party ends at eight, we start at eight-one-thirty. Timing is everything. Except cake, that's my priority. Molly: Now zip it, Bill! I'm about to shimmy the ladder. Remember to count down from three before dashing. One sniff of frosting, and we lose focus. Inside the porch, a garish banner read 'Happy Seventh Birthday, Tommy!' The table groaned with meticulously wrapped boxes of all shapes, glittering ribbons like sirens. Each gift held a promise of sugar highs and squeals of delight. Soon those delights would make their way into Molly's knapsack and Bill's duffel bag—fresh spoils from the sweetest scores they'd ever pulled. Success!