Molly slammed the architectural layout onto the dashboard of their rust-bucket van. It was actually a glittery invitation she had stolen from a mailbox, now covered in tactical red circles. The perimeter is secured by a ribbon fence, Molly said, her voice grave. We breach during the Happy Birthday song. Bill stared out the window at the suburban lawn, watching a perspiring man struggle with a propane tank. He rubbed his temples slowly. We are professional cat burglars, Molly. Last month we hit a jewelry store. Now we're targeting a toddler. Not just any toddler, Bill. Little Timmy brings in a haul. I’ve got intel on a limited edition Robo-Rex wrapped in silver paper. She began checking her equipment: a hook for fishing keys and a very large sack marked SWAG in sharpie. What about the guard dog? Bill asked, nodding toward a sleeping Golden Retriever. Sausages, she replied, tossing a vacuum-sealed pack into his lap. Fatal distraction. At 1400 hours, the clown engages the hostiles. We move into the living room while the parents are cutting the cake. Bill sighed, unwrapping a sausage and taking a defeated bite. I feel dirty, he mumbled. You'll feel rich soon enough. Now, put on your party hat. We need to blend in.