Molly examined the floor plan of the community center while Bill peered through binoculars at the inflatable bounce house. "Seventeen wrapped boxes on that table," Bill whispered. "Focus," Molly hissed back. The reconnaissance had taken three days. They'd learned the birthday boy was turning seven, his parents were hedge fund managers, and the gift table would be catastrophically unguarded between the piñata breaking and cake cutting. A four-minute window, maximum. Bill lowered the binoculars, his expression troubled. The moral implications were finally settling in. These were children. Innocent children who'd probably used their allowances at toy stores, carefully selecting gifts with pudgy, sincere fingers. Molly caught his hesitation and rolled her eyes. She'd been in this business twelve years and never let sentimentality derail a job. The intel suggested at least three gaming consoles in that pile, maybe four, and a jewelry box her fence would pay handsomely for. The parents had posted every gift on social media like absolute amateurs. "We go in during the cotton candy distribution," Molly said flatly. Bill nodded slowly, tucking the binoculars into his jacket. His grandmother would be mortified, but his grandmother also wasn't three months behind on rent.