Molly adjusted the binoculars, frowning at the bouncy castle dominating the Johnsons' suburban backyard. The primary-colored monstrosity bobbed in the afternoon breeze, guarded by a cluster of sugar-crazed children wielding plastic light sabers with unsettling aggression. "Three o'clock. The target is loaded. I count seventeen gifts, predominantly rectangular, plus what appears to be a bicycle wrapped in glitter paper. High value, high visibility." Bill stuffed a jelly donut into his mouth, spraying powdered sugar across the stolen blueprints of the house's HVAC system that Molly had spent three hours procuring from a dubious contact at the planning office. "Seventeen? That's a two-person carry minimum. We're gonna need the duffel bags with the reinforced straps, not those flimsy grocery totes you brought to the bank job." "The piñata is the wildcard," Molly continued, ignoring the pastry shrapnel coating their intel. "If it bursts during our window, we get collateral damage in the form of screaming seven-year-olds swarming the candy. That creates witnesses, Bill. Messy, sticky witnesses with frosting on their faces." "Distraction," Bill said, licking his fingers with tactical precision. "I pose as the clown." "You can't juggle. You can't even whistle." "I don't need to juggle. I need to terrify. One peek at my experimental face paint—think sad mime meets tax auditor—and those kids will evacuate toward the ice cream truck in orderly fashion. Classic misdirection with psychological warfare elements." Molly lowered the binoculars, staring at her partner with the exhausted resignation of someone who had once stolen the Crown Jewels but was now reduced to this. "You're suggesting we emotionally scar a generation for a Nintendo Switch and some LEGO sets?" "And gift cards. Don't forget the gift cards. Those are liquid assets, Mol. Untraceable. Like cryptocurrency, but useful." She sighed, tapping the blueprints where a jelly fingerprint now obscured the utility room. "Fine. But we go in through the kitchen. The back door has a doggy flap—oversized for a golden retriever named Biscuit according to Instagram recon. You can fit." "I resent that physical implication." "You've been stress-eating jelly donuts for twenty minutes straight." Bill brushed sugar off his tactical vest, leaving a white streak that looked like a badge of dishonor. "It's called carb-loading. Heisting is cardio, Molly. Speaking of which, what's the getaway vehicle situation?" "The minivan." "Not the Porsche?" "It's a children's party, Bill. We blend in or we get caught. Nothing says 'invisible suburban parent' like a dented Honda Odyssey with a stick-figure family decal and a 'Baby on Board' sign." Bill nodded slowly, impressed despite himself. "Cold. Calculated. You're right. But what about the parental units?" "Mother is occupied leading the chicken dance. Father is manning the grill, strategically positioned near the beer cooler. Both have attention spans compromised by social obligations and mild day-drinking." "And the birthday boy?" "Opening presents in the living room. Window of opportunity: exactly four minutes between the cake ceremony and the piñata execution. We move fast, we move quiet." Bill grinned, cracking his knuckles with the enthusiasm of a man who clearly didn't understand children. "Four minutes to secure the assets. Clean. Surgical. Like that art museum job in Prague, but with significantly more frosting." "Less laser grids, more juice boxes," Molly corrected, sliding on her black leather gloves. "Remember: we take the presents, not the wrapping paper. Efficiency is key. A crumpled bow is evidence; a clean rectangle is inventory." "Roger that. No bows, no ribbons, no existential dread." They sat in silence for a moment, watching a balloon animal artist twist a poodle out of latex with depressing skill. The absurdity of their mission hung in the recycled air of the van, mixing with the scent of synthetic grape and professional regret. "Bill," Molly said quietly, her hand on the door handle. "Are we bad people?" "We're artists, Molly. The medium is simply... smaller today." "Right. Artists." She started the engine. The Odyssey coughed to life, ready to swallow seventeen birthday presents and whatever remained of their dignity.