Molly examined the balloon-festered colonial through her binoculars, noting the streamers dangling from every available surface. Inside, tiny humans shrieked with sugar-fueled abandon. Bill consulted his watch nervously, sweat beading on his forehead despite the autumn chill. The surveillance had taken three weeks. They'd mapped the household routines, identified the weakest entry point, and determined optimal extraction timing. All for wrapped boxes containing dinosaur figurines and picture books. Molly lowered the binoculars. Her grandmother's medical bills weren't going to pay themselves, and apparently the underground market for rare vintage toys was surprisingly lucrative. Who knew a mint-condition Captain Galactic action figure could fetch eight grand? Bill adjusted his ridiculous clown costume for the seventh time. She wondered, not for the first time, how her criminal career had deteriorated to this specific moment. She'd stolen diamonds from Swiss vaults. She'd lifted Fabergé eggs from oligarchs. Now she was preparing to infiltrate a seven-year-old's birthday party. The back door opened. Parents emerged, distracted by competing phone calls. Bill looked at her expectantly. "Go," Molly whispered. He honked his foam nose once for luck and waddled toward destiny.