Molly spread crayon blueprints across her lap while Bill practiced tactical rolls in the backseat, his industrial knee pads squeaking obnoxiously against the vinyl upholstery. The suburban bungalow across the street looked deceptively peaceful, its primary-colored bouncy castle swaying gently in the afternoon breeze while high-pitched screams indicated party games had already begun inside the fenced perimeter. He adjusted his expensive night vision goggles dramatically despite the bright sunlight flooding the vehicle, his balaclava already causing beads of sweat to form on his forehead. "You can't possibly wear that ridiculous outfit," she said. "It's essential for the perimeter guards," he whispered. "It's a white picket fence, Bill. Three feet high. And that's just a golden retriever with arthritis." He visibly deflated against the seat, checking his utility belt stuffed with zip ties and a grappling hook. "But I planned to rappel from the treehouse window." "We're stealing wrapped presents from small children, not storming a hostile embassy. The clown isn't security, he's entertainment." "Fine. But thirty guests means sixty pairs of socks." "Seventeen guests," she corrected, consulting her glitter notebook. "Thirty-four socks, plus the cake." "Thirty-four," he breathed reverently. "Worth the risk?" "Worth the risk. But lose the harness before you terrify the piñata." "Roger. When do we strike?" "When they sing Happy Birthday, we grab and dash." "What about the clown?" "The clown is just Timmy's uncle doing card tricks. Focus, Bill."