Molly peered through the binoculars at the bouncy castle dominating the backyard. Twenty-seven gift bags lined the picnic table, each bulging with promise. Bill crouched beside her in the bushes, picking leaves from his ski mask. "Phase one?" Bill whispered. "You infiltrate through the moon bounce. I'll handle the clown," Molly replied. Bill nodded solemnly. They'd spent three weeks preparing for this moment, studying Pinterest boards and party planning websites. The birthday boy's mother had documented everything online, including the exact contents of each goodie bag: premium chocolates, gift cards, and those little LED fidget spinners everyone wanted. The clown juggled badly near the patio door. Molly counted seventeen children shrieking with sugar-fueled delight. Perfect chaos for cover. "Remember, we're parents from the PTA," she reminded him. "Got it." They synchronized their watches—unnecessary but tradition—and prepared to move. Bill's stomach growled. He'd skipped lunch to fit into his tactical turtleneck. A piñata exploded nearby, showering candy across the lawn. Children descended like piranhas. Molly smiled behind her sunglasses. Better distraction than they'd planned. "Now?" Bill asked. "Now." They emerged from the azaleas, gift bags in their crosshairs, ready to execute the neighborhood's most audacious daylight robbery.