The gravel crunched under Bill’s boots as he pace-shuffled behind the dumpster, adjusting a tactical turtleneck that was three sizes too small. He looked less like a cat burglar and more like a sausage seeking a promotion. Across from him, Molly was meticulously applying camouflage face paint, though she was using a shade called Sunset Coral because it was the only thing in her purse. Is the perimeter secure? Bill hissed, his voice cracking with the intensity of a man who watched too many spy films. It’s a bounce house, Bill. There are no snipers. There aren’t even any parents looking this way because the clown just set his pants on fire, Molly replied, not looking up from her compact mirror. The plan was simple in theory and humiliating in practice. They were positioned outside the backyard of number forty-two Oak Street, the site of the legendary Montgomery quintuplets’ seventh birthday. Rumor on the street—mostly from a chatty dental hygienist—was that the gift table held at least three limited-edition gaming consoles and a mountain of untraceable Lego sets. Did you bring the suppression devices? Bill asked, tapping his ear. You mean the juice boxes? They’re in the bag, Molly said. She zipped up her tactical duffel, which was actually a floral diaper bag they’d lifted from a stroller in the park. We move in during the cake. When the lights go out for the candles, we breach the sliding door. What if the birthday boy sees us? Bill whispered, sweating profusely. He’s seven, Bill. If he sees you, tell him you’re a very ugly Power Ranger. But I don't have a helmet! Improvise, Bill. That’s what the pros do. Bill took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of glitter. Pocket sand? Molly asked, raising an eyebrow. Magic dust, Bill corrected. In case I need to vanish. It creates a visual distraction. It creates a vacuuming nightmare. Put the glitter away. A roar of high-pitched screaming erupted from the backyard. It sounded like a riot, but it was just the arrival of a professional magician. That’s the diversion, Molly signaled, snapping her compact shut. On my mark. Three, two, one. Go! They scrambled over the low picket fence. Bill’s turtleneck snagged on a decorative birdhouse, leading to a frantic thirty-second struggle that involved a lot of muffled whimpering. By the time he detangled himself, Molly was already pressed against the siding of the house, peering through the sliding glass door. The target is sighted, she whispered as Bill tumbled into the dirt beside her. The gift table is unguarded. It’s a treasure trove, Bill. I see a drone. I see a motorized jeep. I see a bowl of cheese puffs, Bill mouthed, his eyes glazing over. Focus! Molly gripped his collar. We grab the big boxes first. If anyone asks, we’re the entertainment. What kind of entertainment? The kind that leaves quickly, she said, sliding the door open an inch. Now, grab the Lego and don’t sneeze. One stud under a foot and this whole operation goes south. Copy that, Bill whispered, adjusting his coral-streaked face. For the loot. For the loot, Molly echoed, stepping into a sea of discarded wrapping paper.