Molly pressed her back against the minivan and peeked around the corner at the suburban house. A giant inflatable unicorn bobbed in the front yard. "Are you seeing this?" she whispered. Bill adjusted his sunglasses. "I'm seeing a Tuesday afternoon goldmine, that's what I'm seeing." "The intel said there'd be at least forty kids." "Forty rich kids," Bill corrected. "You know what rich parents bring to birthday parties? iPads. Nintendo Switches. Designer sneakers that cost more than my rent." "Your rent is four hundred dollars." "Exactly my point." Molly glanced at her watch. "The clown arrives in ten minutes. That's our window." "I still think we should've gone with the clown disguise." "Bill, you're terrified of clowns." "I'm terrified of a lot of things. Doesn't mean I can't dress like them." He pulled out a wrinkled diagram from his pocket. "Okay, so presents are in the dining room, east side of the house. We go through the back gate, in through the patio doors, grab and dash." "What about the parents?" "They'll all be outside watching the clown. That's literally what they paid him for." "And the birthday girl?" "Birthday boy. Trevor. Age seven. Only child. Which means spoiled, which means expensive gifts." Molly nodded slowly. "What's our exit strategy?" "Same way we came in. I'll drive, you navigate. We'll be three neighborhoods away before anyone notices the present pile is gone." "This feels wrong." "It's extremely wrong. That's why we're criminals." "No, I mean morally wrong. They're kids, Bill." "Rich kids who already have everything. Trust me, little Trevor isn't going to suffer because he only gets to keep the bicycle and the telescope instead of also getting the robotic dog and whatever else is in those gift bags." "You really think there's a robotic dog?" "Molly, there's always a robotic dog." A car pulled into the driveway. A man in rainbow suspenders and a purple wig emerged carrying a small suitcase. "Clown's here," Bill said. "That's our cue." They crept along the fence line toward the back gate. Molly's heart hammered against her ribs. "Wait," she hissed. "What if there's a guard dog?" "What kind of family with a seven-year-old has a guard dog?" "A rich one?" "They have security systems, not dogs. Dogs are messy." Bill eased the gate open. The backyard was empty except for a bouncy castle and a snack table covered in juice boxes. "See? Clear sailing." "This is insane." "That's what you said about the wedding cake job, and we made eight grand." "We also got chased by a bride with a champagne bottle." "Details." Bill grinned. "Now come on. Those presents aren't going to steal themselves." They moved toward the patio doors, where through the glass, a mountain of wrapped boxes glittered in the afternoon sun.