Molly crouched behind Mrs. Henderson's prized roses, counting the rainbow balloons bobbing against the fence. Through the slats, she spotted a magnificent mountain of wrapped presents teetering precariously on a picnic table. Her eyes gleamed with acquisitive delight. Bill shuffled nervously beside her, his oversized burglar mask slipping down his sweating forehead. He'd insisted on wearing the stereotypical striped shirt despite Molly's protests about subtlety. "The birthday boy's opening presents at three-thirty," Molly whispered, consulting her meticulously researched timeline. "What if someone sees us?" Bill hissed back, adjusting his ridiculous mask again. Inside the yard, six-year-olds shrieked with sugar-fueled enthusiasm while chasing each other with pool noodles. A piñata shaped like a unicorn swayed ominously from the oak tree, stuffed with what Molly assumed were premium chocolates. She studied the chaos through her compact binoculars. The parents clustered near the barbecue, completely distracted by gossip and mimosas. Perfect. "We go during pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey," she declared with military precision. Bill gulped audibly as a particularly loud shriek echoed from the party. This was either going to be their most brilliant heist yet, or their most embarrassingly documented failure on neighborhood security cameras.