Molly adjusted the focal ring on her high-powered binoculars, peering intensely through the grease-smeared windshield of their rusted 1998 Econoline van. The suburban cul-de-sac was aggressively quiet, save for the rhythmic, joyous screaming emanating from number 42. A bouncy castle, shaped deceptively like a friendly dragon, dominated the manicured lawn, pulsating as a dozen six-year-olds assaulted its interior structural integrity. To anyone else, it was merely a birthday party. To Molly, it was the Fort Knox of Fisher-Price, a fortress of solitude containing riches beyond the dreams of avarice, assuming avarice dreamed of plastic robots. She tapped the dashboard hard, waking Bill, who was dozing with a half-eaten cruller resting precariously on his tactical vest. "Eyes up," she hissed, watching the front door swing open. "The cake is coming out of the kitchen. We have movement." Bill sat up, blinking rapidly and wiping sugar from his chin. "What flavor is it? If it's fondant, I'm out. Fondant is structural, not edible. I have standards, Molly." "Focus, Bill. The cake is the distraction. Once the candles are lit, visual focus from the adult guardians pulls to the dining room. That leaves the living room completely unsupervised. That’s where the pile is." Molly unrolled the schematic on the dashboard. It was actually a crayon drawing she had stolen from the kid’s cubby at school earlier that week, but she had annotated it with potential ingress points in serious red permanent marker. She pointed a gloved finger to a purple scribble that looked vaguely like a cat but was labeled 'Grandma'. The strategic intelligence gathering had been thorough, involving three days of sitting in a tree wearing a ghillie suit. "The matriarch is the primary threat," Molly explained, tracing the line of sight from the recliner. "She’s sitting in the corner, heavily armed with a knitting needle and a pair of bifocals. However, intel suggests she naps immediately after her afternoon tea. Is the tea poured?" Bill squinted through the thermal scope he had duct-taped to a modified Nerf gun. "Teacup is in hand. Steam rising. She’s taking a sip. We have approximately four minutes until the chamomile kicks in and neutralizes the perimeter." "Good. We go in through the patio door. I handle the screen; you neutralize the dog." "Neutralize?" Bill looked horrified, clutching his chest. "Molly, it’s a Golden Retriever named Snickerdoodle. I’m not hurting Snickerdoodle. He has soulful eyes." "I meant give him the jerky, you idiot. High-grade beef. It cost more than your shoes. Once the dog is occupied, we move to the pile. We have to swap the high-value targets—the video games, the remote-control cars—with the decoys. Did you wrap the empty boxes?" "I did," Bill said, a flush of pride rising in his cheeks. "I even used the dinosaur paper you asked for. But I really think we’re underestimating the toddler element. Their sticky hands... they're like biological sensors. If they touch us, the DNA transfer alone will put us away for life." "We wear the gloves. We wear the masks. We get the loot. This score is going to set us up for weeks. Do you know what a mint-condition 'Space Ranger' goes for on the secondary market?" "Forty bucks?" "Forty-two bucks, Bill. And there are at least three in that pile. Plus, the goody bags." Molly checked her watch, counting down the seconds as the faint, off-key strains of 'Happy Birthday' began to drift across the sun-drenched lawn. She pulled her black balaclava down over her face, adjusting it so the eye holes didn't obscure her peripheral vision. It was a heist, the stakes were incredibly low, and the payout was pure plastic. "Let's go ruin Timmy's day," she whispered.