Molly adjusted her sequined antennae and scowled at her reflection in the minivan's rearview mirror. The ladybug costume itched in places that physically shouldn't exist, and the segmented red shell made sitting impossible without risking a herniated disk. Her wings kept catching on the seatbelt. Beside her, Bill was struggling to zip his bumblebee suit over his considerable shoulders, huffing like a broken accordion while the yellow spandex fought for its life against his torso. Through the windshield, the suburban split-level glowed with multicolored party lights and the distant shrieks of sugar-crazed toddlers bouncing in a castle made of air. "You couldn't pick a theme with more breathing room? I look like a caution sign made of sausage." "We're crashing a four-year-old's garden-themed birthday bash. The invitation said costumes encouraged, not come as yourself and terrify toddlers. Now stuff this pillow in your thorax." Bill finally conquered the zipper and immediately toppled sideways, knocking over their bag of lock-picking equipment with a deafening clatter that echoed in the enclosed space. He froze, listening for sirens or approaching parents. "When I agreed to steal presents, I pictured ski masks, not feelers. Why hit a playdate? The take is LEGO." Molly pulled out a stolen tablet, swiping aggressively to reveal grainy blueprints of the house's security system. Twilight cast long shadows across the dashboard where ancient juice stains mapped previous stakeouts. She pointed toward the house where bass-heavy party music thumped against the vinyl siding like a heartbeat. "Birthday boy is Timothy Van Der Berg. His father bought a rare Honus Wagner card and hid it in a LEGO box because nobody looks at toys. We're talking six figures, Bill. In a place with juice boxes." "Six figures? Why didn't you lead with that? I thought we were petty grifters with a vendetta against children." "Keep your voice down. Parents are doing limbo in the backyard. We go through the garage, blend during the piñata confusion, grab the LEGO Death Star from the gift table, and waddle out before cake." Bill sat up so fast his wire antennae bobbed dangerously. "If someone asks why we're carrying a present?" "We say we're returning it. Bees are notorious for regifting. Remember: no talking to kids, no eating goldfish, and absolutely no mentioning that Girl Scout incident." "I'm sweating through this spandex. If I pass out, drag me past the clown." "The clown is the lookout. Don't make eye contact. He's already suspicious because we're insects with opposable thumbs." Molly shoved a pair of wire cutters into her polka-dot pouch and tightened her velcro shoes, checking that her fake wings hadn't torn. The smell of hot dogs and parental desperation wafted through the cracked window. Bill checked his reflection in the mirror and grimaced at the yellow and black stripes highlighting his midsection. "Those cookies are addictive. Do I have to buzz?" "Only for method points. Operation Pollen Theft is a go." Molly opened the van door and immediately stepped on a plastic rake that whacked her directly in the shin. She cursed through gritted teeth while clutching her leg. "I still think we should have gone with ninjas." "Ninjas don't get invited to garden parties. Move." Bill followed, tripping over his own inflatable stinger and crashing into the recycling bins with a metallic crash that surely alerted the entire neighborhood.