Silence soaked the front porch as Molly balanced a helium balloon on her pinky. Bill scanned the darkened windows of the backyard. Festive lights shone through gauzy curtains, promising a loot trove. Molly adjusted her utility belt. Dozens of squeaky toys dangled from the door’s wreath, taunting them. They counted gift bags in the bay window. Bill patted his hat, fringed with static spider web. A chorus of giggles drifted from inside. Molly pointed at the side gate. “Don’t trip on balloons.” Bill gave a mock curt bow. “Kids love cupcakes; strike at seven.” She shrugged, revealing shimmering grappling hooks disguised as candy canes. Bill inspected a roll of duct tape. “Loot the pinata swiftly and quietly.” They crept around rotten pumpkin planters, avoiding crunchy leaves. Muffled chaos and shouting grew louder. Molly whispered over her shoulder. “Exit through confetti cannon.” Their plan hinged on sugar high distraction. A cluster of confetti poppers stood sentinel by a novelty table. Bill inhaled, raising one brow. Molly tapped her watch. The party host was preoccupied with charades. With synchronized nods, they slipped through the side gate under a banner that read Birthday Princess. Tonight, sugar coated crime felt deliciously criminal and chaotic.