Molly adjusted her binoculars, watching the bounce house sway in the suburban breeze like a giant, garish lung. The vinyl seats stuck to her thighs despite the air conditioning. The sounds of screaming children carried across three lawns, sharp and piercing. "Target is loaded," she said. "I count twelve gift bags, four bicycles, and a Power Wheels Jeep in bubble wrap." Bill tightened his clip-on tie in the passenger seat, sweating slightly in the unmarked white van. The unmarked white van smelled of french fries and regret. He squinted at the pastel chaos unfolding two houses down. "The parents look sticky," he said. "Are we sure about the window?" "That's why we wait for the piñata," Molly whispered, her voice dropping to a rasp though they were three houses down in a van with "Catering" stenciled crookedly on the side. "When they bring out the bat, chaos reigns. Sugar-addled minors scatter like buckshot. We enter as clown caterers." "Caterers?" "Specifically, catering clowns. Look professional but terrifying." Bill shifted in his seat, knee bumping the dash. His polyester pants squeaked against the vinyl. "No face paint after Brussels," he said. "I still have the rash." "That was greasepaint," Molly said, waving dismissively. She held up a glitter-covered clipboard. "This is water-based. Hypoallergenic. Floor plan: kitchen, through the living room, past the screaming circle—" "Is that a dance move?" "It's a literal circle of screaming children. We move fast, keep low, and avoid eye contact with the birthday girl. Her aunt has cop instincts and an iPhone." Bill checked his duffel bag, frowning. His bag held duct tape and a strobe light. "What about the dog?" he asked. "Muzzled by the magician at two o'clock," Molly said. "He's disappearing the Labradoodle. Classic misdirection." "You've thought of everything." "Except the glitter," Molly said, brushing her sleeve. "There's always glitter." She snapped on white gloves with theatrical flair. "Remember the code names. I'm 'Unicorn Princess,' you're 'Frosty the Snowman.'" "We're in July." "Exactly. No one expects Frosty in July." She handed him a baking tray covered in foil. "Cookies with melatonin. Not poison, just nap-inducing. We create a perimeter of sleeping toddlers, retrieve the loot, exfiltrate through the side gate." Bill stared at the cookies with horror. Sprinkles winked like sugary threats. "You want me to roofie children?" he asked. "Encourage natural circadian rhythms. It's homeopathic." "I thought we had standards." "We do," Molly said, pulling on a latex glove with a snap. "That's why we wear gloves. These presents won't steal themselves. That Jeep retails for four hundred." "Fine," Bill said. "But if I step in cake, you're buying me new shoes." "Deal," Molly said. She spoke into her wristwatch, her eyes steely. Static crackled. "Team Unicorn to Base." "Base is a bounce house," Bill muttered under his breath. "Base is wherever I say it is," Molly replied. She opened the van door, letting in humidity and party horn noise. "Initiating Operation Goodnight Moon. If someone asks why you're taking presents, say you're with 'Gift Maintenance.'" "That doesn't sound real," Bill said. "Nothing about this is real, Bill. That's why it's perfect." They stepped into the sunlight, clip-on ties gleaming, ready to liberate a seven-year-old. The grass was suspiciously green, the kind of green that only came from chemical warfare.