The layout of the O’Malley backyard was a suburban nightmare of bounce houses and plastic furniture. Bill squinted through a pair of dented binoculars, his breath fogging the glass. He nudged Molly, who was busy trying to wedge a miniature smoke grenade into the pocket of a stolen clown suit. I am telling you, the security is tighter than a drum, Bill whispered, pointing at a golden retriever napping near the sandbox. That beast is a trained sentry. If we trip the perimeter, he will be on us like gravy on a biscuit. Bill, that dog is fourteen years old and currently dreaming about a tennis ball, Molly said, checking her reflection in a handheld mirror and smearing a terrifying amount of greasepaint on her nose. Focus on the target. The haul is in the gazebo. The target was a mountain of brightly wrapped boxes, towering next to a tiered cake that looked structurally unsound. To a civilian, it was a birthday party. To Bill and Molly, it was the score of the century. Why do they need so many Legos? Bill asked, adjusting his oversized oversized red shoes. My feet are killing me. These flippers weren't made for tactical maneuvers. Stop complaining. Those shoes are essential for the blend-in, Molly snapped. Once the magician starts pulling the rabbit out of the hat, that is our window. We move in, bag the loot, and exfiltrate through the neighbor’s hydrangea hedge. What if there is a clown union issue? I do not have my papers, Bill said, his eyes darting toward a cluster of screaming six-year-olds. They look feral, Molly. They have sugar eyes. They will tear us limb from limb if they catch us touching the Star Wars sets. Molly sighed, handing him a burlap sack decorated with festive balloons. You handle the distractions. If a child approaches, give them a balloon animal. A poodle, or a giraffe. Something time-consuming. I only know how to make a snake, Bill admitted, twisting a yellow balloon until it squeaked ominously. And even then, people usually think it is a very long thumb. Just make the snake and keep them occupied, Molly said, pulling a colorful wig over her ears. We have three minutes until the cake ceremony begins. That is our peak distraction point. Are you ready to be a professional? I was born ready, though I would have preferred a bank, Bill muttered. At least bank guards do not have sticky fingers and the ability to scream at a frequency that shatters glass. They crept toward the fence, the sound of "Happy Birthday" beginning to drift across the lawn. Molly checked her watch with a grim nod. It was go time. For the love of all that is holy, do not pop anything, she hissed. Bill took a deep breath, adjusted his rubber nose, and prepared to face the toddlers. This is for the retirement fund, he whispered. Or at least for a very expensive set of building blocks.