The blueprints were spread across the hood of Bill’s sensible sedan, fluttering in the gentle breeze of the suburban park. Molly, a whirlwind of neon leggings and misplaced enthusiasm, tapped a highlighter on a crudely drawn bouncy castle. “Okay, the primary objective is a soft landing,” she declared, her voice far too loud for a covert operation. “We establish a beachhead in the Fun Fortress. From there, we have a clear line of sight to the prize table.” Bill squinted at the map, then at the actual party fifty yards away. A swarm of seven-year-olds, hopped up on sugar and unadulterated joy, were screaming incoherently. “Molly, that’s a bouncy castle. And our ‘beachhead’ will be filled with small, unpredictable humans who have no concept of personal space.” “It’s a classic diversion, Bill. Chaos is our camouflage. We’ll be just two more adults regretting their life choices.” Bill adjusted the ridiculously oversized baseball cap on his head. It was bright purple and had a propeller on top. Molly had called it ‘inconspicuous’. “This hat is chafing my self-esteem. And the plan is flawed. What’s our exit strategy? Carrying armfuls of wrapped gifts through a minefield of dropped ice cream and parental judgment?” Molly rolled her eyes, a gesture that seemed to take up a third of her face. “That’s why we have the stroller. It’s a tactical retreat vehicle. We load it up, put a blanket over the top, and walk away like the most successful parents at the party. Nobody questions a stroller full of loot.” “Nobody questions a stroller full of a sleeping baby, Molly,” Bill hissed, shielding his eyes from the glare off a giant, inflatable dinosaur. “They will absolutely question a stroller full of what appears to be the entire contents of a toy store. Are you seeing the piñata? It looks like a narwhal wearing a party hat. This is a high-stakes environment.” Molly grinned, a predatory flash of teeth. “Exactly. While everyone is staring at the papier-mâché sea mammal, we make our move. I’ll create a secondary diversion.” “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re going to say.” “I’m going to challenge the birthday kid to a dance-off.” “No. Absolutely not. We are professionals.” “We are thieves who are about to steal from a seven-year-old, Bill. The word ‘professional’ left the building about the time you put on that hat. Now, are you in or are you going to stand here critiquing my battlefield strategy?” Bill sighed, the sound of a man defeated by both his partner’s ambition and his own ridiculous headwear. He looked at the presents, a shimmering mountain of promise wrapped in superhero paper. He imagined the haul. “Fine,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping in resignation. “But if I get glitter on my good jacket, the cut of the Lego Millennium Falcon is mine.”