Rain lashed against the windshield of the rusted Ford Transit, the kind of weather that washed away fingerprints and dampened the spirits of anyone trying to enjoy a backyard barbecue. Molly sat in the driver’s seat, adjusting the strap of her night-vision goggles even though it was two in the afternoon. She stared intently at the split-level ranch house across the street, currently vibrating from the bass of a Kidz Bop remix. To anyone else, it was a birthday party for little Timmy Miller. To Molly, it was a fortress of solitude guarding a treasure trove of unopened cardboard and wrapping paper. She unfurled the blueprints, which were actually a grease-stained napkin with a crude diagram drawn in red crayon. She tapped the center of the paper with a gloved finger, her face a mask of grim determination. "Target acquisition is confirmed," Molly muttered, her voice raspy from years of whispering in libraries. "The gift table is located in the sunroom. Intel suggests a haul of high-value assets. We’re talking limited edition Lego sets, Bill. Maybe even a robotic dinosaur." Bill sat in the passenger seat, nervously shredding a styrofoam cup. He looked pale, his eyes darting toward the terrifying inflatable structure oscillating on the front lawn. "I don’t like the look of the security detail, Mol," Bill said, pointing a shaking finger. "That bounce house is a death trap. One bad bounce and we’re launched into the neighbor’s pool. And have you seen the enforcement officer?" "You mean the clown?" "That’s not just a clown. That’s Boppo. I’ve seen him work the tri-county fair. He can twist a balloon into a tommy gun in under four seconds. The man is a lethal weapon with a squeaky nose." Molly scoffed, pulling a blackened banana out of her tactical vest. She took a bite, peel and all, to show dominance. She swallowed hard and glared at her partner. "Boppo is on a break. I saw him smoking a vape pen behind the hydrangeas. The real threat is the mother. Karen Miller. She has eyes like a hawk and the hearing of a bat. We need to move during the cake cutting. The sugar frenzy will provide the necessary cover." Bill checked his equipment belt. Instead of lockpicks and glass cutters, he was packing two cans of silly string and a pressurized whoopee cushion. "Are we sure about the extraction point?" asked Bill. "The doggy door is a tight squeeze. I’ve been eating a lot of carbs lately." "Grease yourself up, William. This is the big leagues. If you get stuck, I’m leaving you to the mercy of the toddler militia. Do you remember the incident at the petting zoo?" "We don't talk about the petting zoo." "Then focus. We go in," Molly said, checking her watch. "In T-minus thirty seconds. When they start singing 'Happy Birthday,' we hit the perimeter. I grab the loot, you create the diversion with the whoopee cushion near the punch bowl. Chaos ensues, we vanish into the mist." "It's not mist, Molly. It's smoke from the burnt hot dogs." "Semantics. Put on your mask." Molly pulled down her balaclava, which was a repurposed Spider-Man mask, while Bill struggled to fit a paper plate with eye holes over his face. The singing began, a disjointed, off-key chorus rising from the backyard. It was the signal. Molly kicked the door open, the adrenaline masking the absurdity of their crime. They crept across the manicured lawn, two shadows moving against the blinding colors of suburbia, ready to steal joy one gift receipt at a time.