The flickering light of a single bulb illuminated the blueprints of the O’Malley backyard, which was currently dominated by a scale model of a bouncy castle made entirely of sponges. Molly adjusted her glasses, her eyes darting over the perimeter. We strike at thirteen hundred hours, she said, tapping a red X on the map. That is when the sugar high peaks and the parental supervision bottoms out. Bill squinted at the diagram. I still don't like the look of that Golden Retriever. He’s a loose cannon, Molly. He smells fear and pepperoni. Focus, Bill, Molly snapped, slapping a ruler against the table. We aren't there for the dog. We’re there for the loot. Rumor has it little Timmy is expecting the vintage Star Wars collection and a solid gold Lego brick. Is it actually solid gold or just spray-painted plastic? because last time we did a toy heist, I spent three weeks trying to pawn a pile of scented markers. It’s the principle of the thing, Molly insisted. Now, the entry point is the laurel hedge. You’ll be disguised as a very tall, very suspicious-looking clown. A clown? Bill groaned, leaning back in his creaky chair. Why can’t I be the magician? Magicians get respect. Clowns get kicked in the shins by toddlers named Brayden. Because I’m the magician, Molly said firmly. I provide the distraction with the disappearing coin act while you bag the goods. Do you have the tactical gift wrap? Bill pulled a roll of shiny silver paper from under the table. Tape is silenced. Scissors are sharpened. I can wrap a bicycle in under forty seconds without a single visible seam. Good, she nodded, her expression grim. Once the cake hits the table, the children will enter a feeding frenzy. That is our window. We move in, swap the presents for boxes filled with heavy-duty gravel, and exit through the side gate. What about the clown shoes? Bill asked, looking genuinely concerned. They aren’t exactly built for stealth. They squeak, Molly. They squeak with the rhythmic intensity of a thousand dying mice. Oil them, Bill. Use the WD-40. I tried that, he whispered. Now they just squeak and slide. I’ll look like I’m doing a low-budget Moonwalk while trying to kidnap a motorized Jeep. Then slide with dignity, she commanded. This is the big one. If we pull this off, we never have to steal from a baby shower again. No more diaper cakes, Bill. No more miniature socks. Bill looked at the sponge bouncy castle and let out a long, shaky breath. Fine. But if that dog bites me, I’m keeping the Star Wars figures for myself. Deal, Molly said, extending a hand. Now, go practice your balloon animals. If you can’t make a giraffe, the five-year-olds will smell a rat. I can do a worm, Bill muttered, shaking her hand. It’s just a long, sad balloon, but I call it a minimalist snake. They love it.