The van smelled of stale popcorn and crushed hopes. Molly squinted through the binoculars, her nose pressed against the fogged-up glass of the side door. Outside, a bouncy castle shaped like a dejected dragon sagged in the suburban breeze. Are you seeing the target? Bill asked, struggling to pull a black turtleneck over his belly. I see a three-tiered cake and a clown who looks like he’s reconsidering every life choice he’s ever made, Molly whispered. Forget the clown, Bill grunted, his head finally popping through the collar. Is the treasure room secure? It’s a gazebo, Bill. It has mesh walls. I can see the pile from here. It’s huge. How huge? We talking Lego sets or just cheap plushies? I see a Box-O-Bricks, three remote-control trucks, and something that looks suspiciously like a high-end drone. A drone at a six-year-old’s birthday? That’s offensive, Bill said, checking his watch. It’s practically our civic duty to liberate it. Exactly. Now, did you get the tactical gear? Bill reached into a grocery bag and pulled out two oversized party hats featuring googly-eyed dinosaurs. These are the disguises? Molly asked, staring at the glittery cardboard. Nobody suspects the guests, he said, pinning a badge that read BIRTHDAY SHERIFF to his chest. I’m thirty-four, Bill. I don’t look like a distant cousin. I look like a process server. Just hold this balloon animal and look whimsical, Bill commanded, handing her a latex sausage that was meant to be a poodle but looked more like a cry for help. What’s the extraction plan? Molly asked, ignoring the balloon. We wait for the Pinata Protocol. The what? The pinata, Molly. It’s pure chaos. Once that cardboard donkey bursts, every parent in a fifty-foot radius will be distracted by the sight of their offspring fighting over generic hard candy like ravenous wolves. And that’s when we bag the loot? That’s when we swap the gifts for these, Bill said, kicking a sack full of heavy river rocks. Won’t they notice the weight difference? By the time they realize they’ve been gifted granite, we’ll be halfway to the pawn shop. Wait, the clown is moving. He’s reaching for the oversized stick. This is it, Bill whispered, adjusting his dinosaur hat. Move out. Molly checked her pockets. Do I really have to carry the poodle? It’s part of the profile, Molly. Professionals have standards. They slid the van door open. The sound of screaming children hit them like a physical wave. God, it’s loud, Molly hissed, ducking behind a rosebush. That’s the sound of opportunity, Bill said, eyes locked on the drone box. Stay low, stay sweet, and for heaven's sake, don't pop your dog.