Molly adjusted her oversized sunglasses and peered through the hedge at the bouncy castle dominating the Petersons' backyard. Balloons bobbed in the breeze, and the unmistakable chaos of a children's birthday party filled the air with shrieks and laughter. "Tell me again why we're doing this?" Bill whispered, crouched beside her in a SpongeBob costume that had seen better days. "Because Jeffrey Peterson's kid is turning seven, and every tech executive in Silicon Valley sent presents. We're talking smart tablets, gaming systems, probably a pony made of gold." "Kids don't want gold ponies. They want regular ponies." "Focus, Bill." Through the leaves, they watched a clown making balloon animals for a circle of mesmerized children. The present table stood unguarded near the patio doors, piled high with wrapped boxes in metallic paper. "I still think this is morally questionable," Bill said, adjusting his square pants. "We're redistributing wealth. It's practically charity." "To ourselves." "Details." Molly pulled out a crumpled piece of paper covered in crayon. Her niece had drawn the backyard layout in exchange for ice cream, though the stick figures labeled "boring adults" weren't particularly helpful. "Okay, you'll enter through the bouncy castle. I'll create a diversion by the punch bowl." "What kind of diversion?" "I'm going to tell them the punch is contaminated with gluten." Bill stared at her through the eyeholes of his costume. "That's your master plan? Gluten?" "These are California parents, Bill. They'll evacuate faster than if I yelled 'fire.' While they're panicking, you'll bounce your way to victory." "I can't steal presents dressed as SpongeBob. The kids trust me." "Exactly. You're beloved. No one suspects SpongeBob." "I suspect SpongeBob. Have you seen that show? He's definitely hiding something in that pineapple." A soccer ball sailed over the hedge, landing between them. A small child's face appeared through the leaves. "SpongeBob?" the child asked, eyes widening. Bill froze. Molly smiled brightly. "SpongeBob's taking a break, sweetie. Very important fry cook business." "Can I have your autograph?" "SpongeBob doesn't have fingers, just mittens. Makes writing tricky." The child considered this logic, shrugged, and ran off. "See?" Molly said. "You're perfect for this job." "I should've been Patrick. Patrick has no moral compass." "Patrick can't fit through the bouncy castle entrance. We measured." Bill sighed, pulling the costume's head into position. "If I get tackled by seven-year-olds, you're paying for my therapy." "Deal. Though technically, the presents will pay for your therapy." "That's not how therapy works." "It is if you steal enough presents." Molly checked her watch. The cake would arrive in fifteen minutes. She'd timed multiple suburban birthday parties, and cake arrival was as predictable as a Swiss train. "Ready?" she asked. "No." "Perfect. Unpreparedness looks more authentic. Break a leg." "In a bouncy castle? That's actually possible." Molly was already army-crawling toward the punch bowl, leaving Bill alone with his conscience and foam costume.