Molly smoothed the grease-stained napkin against the diner table with the reverence usually reserved for the Declaration of Independence. To the untrained eye, the sketch looked like a crude drawing of a backyard with a lopsided square representing a bouncy castle, but to her, it was the schematic for the most daring extraction of the fiscal quarter. She checked her watch, a habit born of high-stakes bank jobs, though this particular operation required timing the metabolic sugar crash of twenty eight-year-olds rather than a laser grid. Across from her, Bill was sweating through a black turtleneck that was criminally inappropriate for a Saturday afternoon in July. He looked like a cat burglar who had lost his way and ended up at a PTA meeting. He stared at the red X Molly had drawn over the gazebo with the trepidation of a man facing a firing squad. "Focus, Bill. The Anderson kid turns eight today," Molly said, her voice low and intense. "Intel suggests high-value assets. Lego sets. Limited edition plushies. Maybe even a drone." Bill fidgeted with his fork, bending the tine against the table. He was used to cracking titanium vaults, not navigating obstacles made of vinyl and air. He looked at the plan, then back to Molly, his eyes filled with doubt. "I don't know, Molly. The invitation explicitly said 'No Gifts'. If we rappel over that fence and find a donation box for the animal shelter, I’m going to feel really stupid." Molly rolled her eyes at his amateurism, tapping the napkin with a french fry for emphasis. She knew the psychological landscape of the suburbs better than she knew her own mother. "It’s suburban code, you idiot. They say 'no gifts' to look humble. Everyone brings a gift. The pile will be massive. We strike during the piñata drop. Visual chaos is our ally." She traced the escape route past the inflatable slide. The primary threat wasn't the police or laser sensors, but Mrs. Anderson, a woman whose peripheral vision was legendary in the neighborhood watch. The getaway vehicle aimed to avoid suspicion from the homeowner association by being a beige minivan. Bill, however, was fixated on the hired entertainment. "What about the clown? Binky?" Bill whispered. "He’s got those dead eyes. If he makes a balloon animal sword and challenges me, I can't guarantee I won't use Krav Maga." "Binky is on a smoke break at 2:15. That’s our window. You go in with the black trash bags. You’re not a thief; you’re a helpful uncle on cleanup duty. You sweep the loot into the bags and walk out the side gate." It was a brilliant plan. Evil, petty, and requiring zero technology, exactly how Molly liked it. But Bill seemed to be mourning the loss of his tactical gear, looking wistfully at the duffel bag of grappling hooks he’d been forced to leave in the car. "Do I at least get to wear the balaclava?" he asked. "Absolutely not," Molly snapped. "Wear a polo. Try to look like you have a mortgage. Blend in." Bill sighed, accepting his fate. The resale value on unopened building blocks was recession-proof, even if the dignity cost was high.