They crouched behind the hydrangea bushes three houses down from the McAllister residence, where the decibel level of screaming children suggested the sugar had fully kicked in and was now operating heavy machinery inside small bodies. The August heat cooked the suburban street into a shimmer, turning the air into soup that tasted of exhaust and freshly cut grass. Bill kept readjusting his ski mask, pulling it up and then down again as if his conscience couldn't decide whether to hide his shame or advertise it to the neighborhood watch association. Through her binoculars, Molly watched a mountain of iridescent gift bags pile up on the patio table beside a half-deflated bounce castle that listed dangerously to port like a drunken ship taking on water. The invitations had promised pony rides, but the real treasure was the unwrapped electronics she could see gleaming in the sun: three PlayStation 5s, a drone fleet still in original packaging, and something from Tiffany's small enough to fit in a sock but heavy enough to suggest seven-year-old Brayden definitely didn't appreciate the karat weight. "Are we seriously stealing from a second-grader?" Bill whispered, his voice cracking. "Technically we're stealing from his parents, who are inside doing tequila shooters at two in the afternoon while a caterer handles the juice boxes," Molly said, checking the tension on her repurposed rock climbing harness. "Besides, this is reconnaissance. If we can infiltrate a bouncy house perimeter without getting frosting on our tactical gear, we can crack the Bellagio." Bill stared at his partner, then back at the backyard where a clown in oversized shoes was currently making a poodle from balloons with the focused intensity of a heart surgeon. The smell of cheap hot dogs and parental regret hung in the humid air like a curse. Bill wrung his hands inside the rubber gloves he'd insisted on wearing. "What about the clown? He's a witness." "He's paid forty bucks an hour to believe in magic, not morality. You create a diversion by the piñata while I clear that table. Three minutes." "And if the birthday boy sees us?" Molly patted the Velcro pouch on her hip. "Then we give him the lollipops. He'll nap." "That's diabolical." "Remember, no stuffed animals heavier than a cat—they're just dead weight—and skip anything wrapped in Paw Patrol paper. That's just socks." Bill nodded, adjusting his stolen catering uniform that smelled of salmon puffs and existential defeat. He missed the days of museum galleries and laser grids. "I felt cleaner when we robbed that arms dealer in Tampa." "Bill, the parents bought him a Rolex. We're performing a public service. Move." As the clown started twisting what looked either like a giraffe or a Freudian nightmare, Molly gave the signal. Bill stood up, took a deep breath, and sprinted toward the cake table screaming about gluten allergies and airborne fondant, his sneakers sliding on the grass. Molly was already over the fence, her lockpick gleaming between her teeth as she vanished into the shadows of the party tent.