The van smelled like stale coffee and regret, which Molly had come to recognize as the official scent of their operations. She spread the hand-drawn map across the dashboard, squinting at Bill's artistic interpretation of the Henderson property. "Is that a dog or a swimming pool?" she asked, tapping a brown blob near what she assumed was the back entrance. Bill leaned over, his reading glasses sliding down his nose. "That's Mrs. Henderson. I drew her to scale." Molly decided not to pursue that line of questioning. Through the windshield, she could see the target: a modest suburban home currently being invaded by a swarm of seven-year-olds hopped up on sugar and the promise of cake. Balloons bobbed cheerfully from the mailbox, mocking their criminal intentions. "Run me through the timeline again," she said. Bill consulted his phone, which displayed a schedule he'd obtained through what he called "advanced reconnaissance" and what Molly called "stalking a mommy blog." He cleared his throat with the gravity of a general briefing troops before battle. "The party started at two. They've done the bounce house and the face painting. Pin the tail on the donkey is happening now, which means the kids are blindfolded and disoriented. Perfect cover." "And the presents?" "Stacked in the dining room. I counted at least fifteen through the window. We're talking premium haul here, Molly. Legos, probably some video games, maybe even one of those robot dogs that does backflips." Molly watched a father stumble out the front door, his face painted like a butterfly, his eyes hollow with exhaustion. He sat on the porch steps and stared at nothing, a broken man. She felt a kinship with him. The plan was simple, as all their plans started out. They would enter through the side gate during the cake ceremony, when all attention would be focused on the birthday boy and his sugar-crusted moment of glory. Bill would create a distraction if needed, though his distraction ideas historically ranged from questionable to legally actionable. Molly would grab what she could carry, they'd rendezvous at the van, and they'd be three towns over before anyone noticed the gift table had been liberated. "What's our exit strategy if things go sideways?" Molly asked. Bill grinned, producing two items from his jacket pocket. "I brought backup. Noise-canceling headphones and a bag of organic fruit snacks. If any kid spots us, we bribe them. If they start screaming, we can't hear it." "That's not how noise-canceling headphones work." "It's not?" Molly rubbed her temples. She had a master's degree in art history. She had once been employee of the month at a respectable auction house. Now she was plotting to steal presents from a child named Tyler who, according to the mommy blog, really really really wanted a dinosaur tent. "Let's just do this," she sighed.