The humidity inside the parked panel van was thick enough to grow mushrooms, but Bill was too busy wrestling with a pair of oversized yellow overalls to notice. He grunted, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the plush unicorn emblems on the gift wrap they intended to liberate. Molly sat on a crate of fake smoke bombs, meticulously sharpening the edge of a plastic cake server. We have exactly twelve minutes before the bouncy castle reaches maximum inflation, Molly said, checking her watch with the intensity of a bomb technician. If we miss the window, we’re dealing with forty sugar-crazed toddlers in a high-velocity environment. I still don’t see why I have to be the clown, Bill wheezed, finally snapping a suspender into place. My hips aren’t built for polka dots, Molly. It’s undignified. You’re the distraction, Bill. You juggle the flaming torches, the parents scream, and I slide into the sunroom to bag the loot. It’s a classic pincer movement. I can’t juggle flaming torches, Bill reminded her, his eyes wide. I can barely juggle my own checkbook. Last time I tried to toss three oranges, I broke a rib and the cat stopped trusting me. Then juggle the scarves. They’re aerodynamic enough if you spit on them, she said, tossing him a handful of neon silk. Focus. The target is a mountain of rectangular boxes located adjacent to the juice box fountain. Sources say there’s at least one limited edition robotic dinosaur in the mix. Bill paused, his hand hovering over a bucket of greasepaint. The Raptor-Bot 3000? The one with the voice-activated laser eyes? That’s the one. Black market value is three times its weight in gold, Molly whispered, her eyes gleaming. Or we could trade it to that fence in Jersey for those night-vision goggles we wanted. Wait, Bill said, a sudden look of moral crisis crossing his face. What if there’s a clown already there? A professional? I’m not prepared for a turf war with a guy named Giggles. I’ve checked the permits. The parents are too cheap for a pro. They’re relying on a teenage neighbor who’s currently locked in his own basement because I jammed his door with a toothpick, Molly said coolly. She stood up, checking her tactical vest, which was hidden beneath a floral sundress that shouted suburban innocence. Bill looked at his reflection in a hubcap and sighed, smearing a glob of red paint onto his nose. I look like a sunset had a midlife crisis, he muttered. You look like a professional thief about to retire on a pile of Lego sets and remote-control cars, Molly retorted, sliding the van door open. Now get out there and make those children laugh until they can’t breathe. Bill stepped into the sunlight, his oversized shoes squeaking with every rhythmic, agonizing step. I’m doing this for the Raptor-Bot, Molly. Just remember that when I’m being tackled by a bouncy house. Good luck, Bozo, she replied, disappearing into the shadows of the azaleas. Don't drop the scarves.