The attic smelled of mothballs and forgotten Christmases. Molly crouched beside a dusty skylight, peering through binoculars at the suburban house across the street. Colorful streamers flapped in the breeze, and a sagging inflatable T-Rex wobbled near the front lawn. A tiny plastic sign read: “Liam’s 6th Birthday Bonanza!” Bill, meanwhile, was elbow-deep in a backpack full of suspiciously tactical gear for a gig involving juice boxes and pin-the-tail-on-the-unicorn. “Remind me again,” Bill said, pulling out a pair of night-vision goggles, “why we’re robbing a bunch of toddlers?” “Not the toddlers,” Molly snapped, adjusting her balaclava—pink, bedazzled, custom-ordered from Etsy. “The parents. They’re the ones who spend four hundred bucks on a single gift. Look.” She pointed through the glass. “That glittery package under the table? Size and weight consistent with a limited-edition robotic puppy with Bluetooth-enabled barking. Retail? Three hundred and fifty. We fence it, we split a grand before noon.” Bill poked a foam sword. “Still feels like we’re violating the Geneva Convention.” “It’s not a war crime, Bill. It’s a redistribution of poorly prioritized consumer spending. Besides, no one gets hurt. Kids cry when they lose their toys all the time. We’re just… accelerating the natural order.” “Yeah, but this one kid,” Bill said, squinting, “the one in the superhero cape—he’s got *eyes*. Like, predator eyes. Staring right at the skylight.” Molly snorted. “That’s Liam. I did recon. Likes LEGO and aggression. But he’ll be zonked on cake by 2:17. Our window opens at 2:30.” Bill tugged at his disguise—a floppy clown wig and a fake nose that kept sliding off. “I still think the clown bit’s pushing it.” “It’s psychology. Adults don’t look twice at clowns. They feel vaguely guilty and look away. We exploit that. You’re ‘Uncle Bubbles,’ hired for the entertainment. I’m ‘Auntie Sparkle,’ your estranged twin with a penchant for glitter.” “You made that up right now.” “Improvisation is part of the craft,” Molly said, snapping shut her planner. “You enter at 2:32, do three and a half minutes of magic tricks—distract during the big pull from the piñata. I’ll be in the utility closet, which I’ve already unlocked via the backyard, thank you very much. At 2:37, I start moving presents into the laundry cart.” Bill pulled a walkie-talkie the size of a peanut. “And if the robot puppy’s already been opened?” “Then we take the box and cry quietly later.” “What if they have a pet?” “They have a goldfish named Greg. It’s in a bowl by the fridge. Greg poses no threat.” Bill hesitated. “What if they *love* the presents?” Molly fixed him with a stare. “Bill. We are not monsters. We leave one gift. Something handmade. A lopsided clay bowl. They’ll treasure it more anyway—emotional value, post-theft sentimentality. It’s science.” Bill sighed. “I still think we should’ve just robbed the diamond exchange.” “We tried. You panicked when the laser grid turned pink.” “That wasn’t a panic. That was a strategic reassessment.” Molly zipped up her tactical fanny pack. “Look, this is clean, low-risk, and morally ambiguous at best. Besides, we’re professionals. We’ve done bakeries, zoos, that time at the yoga retreat.” “Which ended in emotional healing.” “That was a cover.” A sudden crash from below. Then laughter. A tiny voice shrieked, “I POOPED IN THE GOGGLES!” Molly glanced at her watch. “Showtime. Remember: you’re a clown now. Embrace the tragedy.” Bill adjusted the nose. “I hate this plan.” “Then steal my heart later,” Molly said, vanishing through the attic panel. “And bring the cart.”