The balloons bobbed lazily above the backyard like overinflated sentinels, their pastel colors clashing with the grim determination in Molly’s eyes. She adjusted her glittery party hat—*disguise*, she called it—and nudged Bill with her elbow. "You’re sure the kid’s parents won’t be back early?" Bill, currently wrestling a clown nose onto his face, squinted at the watch strapped to his wrist. "Relax. The mom’s at some ‘yoga retreat’—whatever that means—and the dad’s stuck in traffic after his ‘important meeting.’" He air-quoted with his free hand. "We’ve got at least an hour before the cake’s even cut." Molly snatched the nose from him and tossed it into a nearby bush. "We’re not here for cake. We’re here for the *loot*." She gestured toward the mountain of wrapped presents under the picnic table, each one a potential goldmine of iPads, LEGO sets, and—if they were lucky—cold hard cash stuffed into birthday cards. "You take the left side, I’ll take the right. And for the love of all things holy, *do not* let any of those brats see you." Bill sighed, already eyeing a suspiciously large box labeled *For Timmy (Do Not Open Early)*. "You say that like I’m the one who got caught last time because I *had* to test the alarm system." Molly groaned. "That was *one time*, and it was a *toy store*, not a kindergarten rave." She grabbed a handful of candy from a nearby table and stuffed it into her pocket. "Focus. In and out. No singing, no dancing, and *absolutely* no accepting any of their juice boxes." Bill saluted, then immediately knocked over a stack of plastic cups. "Right. Professionalism. Got it."