Molly adjusted the focus on her tactical binoculars, which were actually just two toilet paper rolls taped together and painted matte black. The magnification was nonexistent, but the psychological effect was professional. She stared down at the suburban backyard where chaos reigned supreme. A neon-colored bounce house shuddered under the weight of a dozen sugar-fueled seven-year-olds. To the average observer, it was a birthday party. To Molly, it was the vault at the Bellagio. Status report, she barked, not looking away from the carnage. Bill sat in the driver’s seat of their rusted surveillance van, struggling to scrape the last bit of yogurt out of a tiny plastic cup. The perimeter is comprised of exhausted parents and one very suspicious Golden Retriever. Also, I think the clown is packing. Packing what? Heat? Balloon animals. Dangerous ones. I saw him make a sword that looked surprisingly aerodynamic. Molly lowered the binoculars and glared at him. They were aspiring career criminals who had recently been banned from the local mall for trying to shoplift a mannequin. This score was their ticket to the big leagues, or at least to a decent pawn shop. The intellectual property sitting on the gift table was staggering. There were legally distinct building blocks, action figures with karate-chop action, and electronic pets that screamed when ignored. Focus, William. We have a fifteen-minute window between the pinata violence and the cake coma. That is when we strike. Did you secure the disguises? Bill reached into the back of the van and pulled out a crumpled heap of gray polyester. I got the mascot suit, but the rental place was out of the Friendly Bear. I had to settle for the Depressed Badger. A badger? For a child's party? It is educational. Teaches them about nature's irritability. Molly sighed, a sound like a tire rapidly losing air. She snatched the costume. It smelled faintly of mothballs and failure. She pointed a manicured finger at the heist schematic spread across the dashboard. It was drawn in crayon on the back of a diner placemat. You go in as the entertainment. You distract the targets with whatever badgers do. Burrowing, perhaps. While their attention is diverted, I infiltrate the perimeter disguised as a bewildered aunt looking for the bathroom. I sweep the gift table into the laundry sacks. What about the clown, Molly? Bozo looks like he has prison tattoos under that greasepaint. If the clown engages, you escalate. Escalate to what? Biting? You are a badger, figure it out. We need those presents. I have it on good authority there is a limited edition starship in the pile wrapped in superhero paper. That alone covers rent. Bill looked at the house, then at the sad badger suit, then back to Molly. He looked terrified. I feel like stealing from kids is bad karma. What if Santa finds out? Santa isn't real, Bill. But the landlord is. Put on the head. Bill pulled the oversized, frowning badger mask over his head. His voice came out muffled and mournful. I can't see anything. It smells like old cheese in here. Code Red, Molly whispered, viewing the yard again. They are bringing out the cake. The sugar rush will peak in T-minus ten minutes. Move out. They exited the van, a woman in a floral dress and a stumbling, clinically depressed badger, ready to pull off the heist of the century.