The suburban afternoon hung heavy with the scent of frosting and impending chaos, a cacophony of high-pitched screams that rattled the very foundations of Bill’s resolve. He crouched behind a particularly manicured hydrangea, sweat staining his tactical turtleneck, feeling significantly less like a master thief and more like a large, uncomfortable garden gnome. Beside him, Molly was adjusting her night-vision goggles, despite it being two o'clock on a Saturday, with the grim intensity of a bomb disposal expert. "Get that out of your mouth," Molly hissed, slapping Bill’s hand away from a half-eaten cookie he’d found on the pavement. "We are professionals. This is a high-stakes environment." Bill wiped the crumbs on his cargo pants, looking mournfully at the cookie. "It’s a six-year-old’s birthday party, Moll. The highest stake here is who gets the last slice of pizza. I still don’t see why we can’t just hit the liquor store again. That guy barely remembers my face." "Because liquor stores have cameras, silent alarms, and owners who keep cricket bats under the counter," Molly whispered, gesturing with a gloved hand toward the manicured lawn where a bouncy castle was currently deflating. "This? This is a soft target. Look at that pile by the patio door. It’s not just presents, Bill. It’s unopened electronics, LEGAs, and enough high-end plushies to fund our retirement." "I want the giant bear," Bill grumbled, shifting his weight and trying to ignore the squeak of his rubber soles. "The one with the top hat. I’ve had my eye on him since we breached the hedge." "We fence the bear, we split the profit. Now, focus on the entry point. I’ve timed the rotation. The clown goes on break in two minutes. That leaves the parents distracted by the sugar crash." "I hate the clowns," Bill shuddered, clutching the oversized duffel bag. "Smile painted on, dead inside. They know, Moll. They know what we’re about to do." "They don't know anything. Now, put on the head." Bill struggled with the oversized, grizzly bear mascot head, his voice becoming muffled and tinny as he wrestled the costume into place. "It smells like old sweat and desperation in here." "That’s the smell of success, Bill. Now, move out. When I give the signal, you stumble in like you’ve had too much juice box. I’ll create the diversion by pointing out a bee." "A bee? Seriously?" "Parents are terrified of bees. It’ll cause a stampede. While they flail and panic, you scoop the loot. We meet at the extraction point—the ice cream truck on the corner." Bill lumbered to his feet, the bear head swaying comically as he tried to find his balance. "If I get punched by a soccer mom, I’m keeping the bear." "Just get the presents."