Bill wiped the condensation from his binoculars and stared at the suburban backyard through the passenger window of their nondescript sedan, which smelled of stale coffee and professional disappointment. The scene resembled a traveling carnival that had collided with a sugar rush and a balloon animal factory explosion. Multicolored orbs tangled in the oak trees like floral crime scenes, slowly deflating in the August humidity, their rubber skins sagging toward the lawn like wilted flowers. A clown in oversized shoes chainsmoked by the garage, looking like he owed money to the wrong balloon animals and was contemplating a career change. And there, glistening in the morning sun like the Holy Grail wrapped in primary colors, sat a gift table groaning under forty-seven presents. The paper practically screamed resale value. Bill could see the corners of boxes strained against the wrapping—electronics, maybe, or at least something better than the expired soap he'd lifted from the retirement home last month. He could practically hear the unwrapped cash from here. "Tell me again why we're stealing from a seven-year-old," Bill said, lowering the binoculars. Molly unfolded a crumpled invitation she'd fished from the Parkersons' recycling bin that morning while pretending to be a jogger. Her athletic shorts were still damp with someone else's Gatorade. "It's not about the kid. It's about the PS5, the Jeep, and those iPads." "We can't just waltz into a birthday party." Molly adjusted her neon pink t-shirt that read 'Party Volunteer' in puffy paint that was still slightly wet. "We're not waltzing. We're infiltrating. I RSVP'd plus two yesterday." "As who?" "Cake cutters." Bill stared at the suspiciously lumpy duffel bag in the trunk. It emitted a faint ticking sound that made his ulcer twitch with memories of federal prison. "Tell me that's a metronome." "Smoke bomb. Grape-scented. When it goes off, parents panic about allergies. We grab the goods while they're busy with epinephrine pens." Bill ran his hands through his thinning hair, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked like a man who had lost a fight with a bounce house. "I used to rob banks." "Banks have guards. This place has a piñata full of expired candy and a magician who drinks at ten in the morning." She handed him a paper sack containing his disguise. "Now put on your hat." Bill sighed, fixing the propeller beanie to his balding head. The plastic blades spun lazily in the stagnant air, casting ridiculous shadows across his face. "The things I do for seventy-five percent of forty-seven gifts." A child suddenly pressed his sticky face against their car window, leaving a smear of chocolate and existential wonder. Molly waved with her fingers crossed behind her back, her smile stretching like taffy. "Act natural," she whispered. "We're wearing ski masks," Bill hissed, his propeller wobbling with indignation. "Not yet. Today we're entertainers here to spread joy and larceny." Through the windshield, they watched toddlers scream with delight as someone mentioned bubbles. Molly checked her tactical fanny pack containing three kinds of tape, a universal remote, and juice boxes for hydration. She glanced at her watch, which she'd stolen from a different child last Tuesday during a swimming lesson. "Five minutes," she said. "When you hear the SpongeBob theme song, that's our cue. The parents will be distracted by the missing pizza." "You stole the pizza?" "I am the pizza. Now get your game face on." Bill practiced smiling in the rearview mirror. It looked like a grimace having a medical event.