Molly adjusted the focus on her binoculars, pressing her face against the grimy windshield of the rusted Econoline van. Across the manicured lawn, the suburban house was alive with the chaotic frequency of a Saturday afternoon. Multicolored balloons bobbed violently in the wind, tethered to a mailbox that looked far too cheerful for the crime about to be committed. Status report on the perimeter, Molly barked, not looking away from the lenses. Bill leaned back in the passenger seat, wiping a smudge of powdered sugar from his chin. The clown has breached the primary gate. Repeat. Mr. Noodles is on the premises and he is armed with a balloon pump. Molly lowered the binoculars slowly, her eyes narrowing. That guy is a loose cannon. I saw him make a giraffe in under six seconds at the Johnson job. He is fast and he is ruthless. We have to move before he starts the magic show. Are you sure about this, Mol? Bill asked, shifting uncomfortably. Last time we hit a venue like this, I got bit by a Labradoodle. That wound still throbs when it rains. It was a Goldendoodle, Bill, and you stepped on its tail. Focus. Look at that gift table. It is bowing. It is physically reinforcing under the weight of capitalist obligation. I see rectangular boxes. That means electronics. Or really heavy blocks. Either way, we fence it by dinner. Bill squinted through the window. I spot a bike. Neon green. Training wheels. Moving that unit is going to be a two-man lift. Leave the vehicle, Molly ordered, slapping his shoulder with the back of her hand. We are here for the small, dense packages. High resale value, low drag. Now, run me through the extraction protocol one more time. Bill sighed, reciting the plan he had memorized over a breakfast of stale coffee. We wait for the cake. When they start singing 'Happy Birthday,' audio cover is at maximum decibels. We breach the side gate, neutralize the piñata if it blocks the path, and secure the cargo. And the security detail? Distracted by cheap chardonnay and conversations about interest rates, Bill said. Precisely. Molly pulled a crumpled piece of construction paper from the glovebox. It was drawn in green crayon. I bribed the little sister for this intel. Three lollipops. Worth every penny. Okay, entry point Alpha is the bouncy castle generator. It is loud. It will mask our footsteps. What about the sensory perimeter? Bill asked, tapping a scribbled circle on the map. Sector Seven? The sandbox? Yeah. If we track sand into the living room, the mother goes full SWAT team. I have seen it happen, Molly. It is not pretty. She has a handheld vacuum and she knows how to use it. We wear booties over our boots. Professional standard. Molly reached into the back seat and tossed him a pair of blue surgical shoe covers. Bill held them up, dangling the elastic from his pinky finger. I look like a dental hygienist. You look like a phantom. A shadow. A thief who is about to steal the joy of a six-year-old named Timmy. I still think stealing from kids is moral gray area, Bill muttered. Bill, they do not appreciate the craftsmanship of a Lego Death Star. We are liberating those bricks. Besides, Timmy hit me with a water balloon last Tuesday while I was checking the mail. This is personal. So this is a revenge heist? It is justice, Molly corrected, checking her watch. Is that why we are taking the ice cream cake too? The cake is collateral damage. It melts, Bill. We have to eat it to destroy the evidence. It is basic forensics. Bill smirked, pulling a black beanie over his eyes before adjusting it. I am in. But I am not fighting the clown. If Mr. Noodles goes rogue, I am running. Deal. I will handle Mr. Noodles. You grab the loot. On my mark. Three. Two. One. Go.