Molly slammed the blueprints onto the dashboard of the rusty Econoline van. The blueprints were actually a crayon drawing she had bribed the birthday boy’s younger brother to create for three juice boxes, but the intel was solid. Across the street, the suburban lawn of the Johnson residence was a chaotic battlefield of streamers, screaming six-year-olds, and the ominous, rhythmic thumping of a rented bouncy castle. This was the big score. The Lego Millennium Falcon was in there. She could feel it. Review the extraction point again, Molly commanded, her voice tight with the tension of a thousand failed jobs. Bill blinked, slowly chewing on a ham sandwich that was shedding crumbs onto his tactical turtleneck. We go through the patio doors, grab the loot table, and exit via the side gate. But I still don't feel right about the clown, Mol. He's got shifty eyes. Forget the clown. The clown is a civilian contractor. He goes down, he stays down. Our primary threat is the mother. Sharon. She has eyes like a hawk and the hearing of a bat. If she catches us near the gift pile, we’re facing a timeout. Or the police. But mostly the timeout. Molly checked her watch. It was synchronized to the atomic clock, or at least to the microwave inside the Johnson’s kitchen which she could see through the window. The sheer logistics of the operation were staggering. They needed to bypass the pinning of the tail on the donkey, navigate the minefield of discarded wrapping paper, and secure the asset before the piñata was breached. What about the dog? Bill asked, reaching for his thermos. The Golden Retriever? I’ve packed the countermeasures. Molly held up a bag of premium beef jerky. One whiff of the teriyaki blend and Mr. Wiggles is neutralized. He’ll sell out his own family for a savory treat. Focus, Bill. We have a window of four minutes while the cake is being cut. The sugar rush will create a distraction event. That’s when we strike. Bill looked nervous. He adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, which was originally meant for gym clothes but was now destined to hold sixty pounds of plastic toys and wrapping paper. The risk of cardboard cuts was statistically high. Do we have to take the cards? Bill asked. I feel bad taking the cards. Grandma money is sacred. We leave nothing! If we leave the cards, they trace us. It’s a clean sweep. Stop growing a conscience, Bill. Remember the bicycle incident of ninety-eight? That’s why we do this. For the injustice. Molly pulled a black ski mask over her face, though it had neon pink whiskers embroidered on it to blend in with the festive atmosphere. Camouflage was key in urban warfare. She handed Bill a matching mask. I can’t breathe in this, Bill complained, muffling his voice. And it smells like fabric softener. It smells like victory, Molly hissed. The cake is coming out. I see the candles. Sharon is distracted. The clown is checking his phone. Go, go, go! The van door slid open with a groan that sounded suspiciously like a warning. They spilled onto the pavement, not like silent shadows of the night, but like two adults about to ruin a very expensive afternoon. Molly signaled the advance. The bouncy castle loomed ahead, a fortress of rubber and air. The heist of the century was on.