Molly pressed her binoculars against the rain-spattered windshield of their rusted Volvo, studying the suburban house with the intensity of a surgeon examining an MRI. Balloons in aggressive shades of pink bobbed from the mailbox like cheerful sentinels, completely unaware of the criminal masterminds observing from across the street. "There must be thirty kids in there," she muttered, watching another minivan disgorge its cargo of sugar-fueled children onto the lawn. Bill lowered his own binoculars and scratched his chin thoughtfully. He had insisted on wearing all black despite it being two in the afternoon, and sweat had begun pooling in unfortunate places. "That's thirty potential witnesses, Mol. Thirty tiny, unreliable witnesses who can barely remember their own phone numbers." "You're assuming they have phone numbers to remember." "Fair point." The house belonged to the Hendersons, a family whose commitment to excessive birthday celebrations had become legendary in the neighborhood. Their daughter Sophia was turning seven, and the gift table visible through the front window looked like a small mountain range constructed entirely of wrapped packages and glittering bows. Molly pulled out a crumpled napkin covered in diagrams and arrows. She had sketched the floor plan from memory after attending a neighborhood watch meeting three weeks prior, pretending to be concerned about porch pirates while actually casing every home on Maple Street. "The presents are in the living room. Parents are concentrated in the kitchen, probably drinking wine and pretending to supervise." "What about the entertainment?" "Princess character. Arrives at three, leaves at four. That's our window." Bill nodded slowly, processing this information. The princess would create the perfect distraction. Children would swarm around her like moths to a flame made of tulle and synthetic hair extensions, leaving the gift table temporarily unguarded. "And we're sure about this? Stealing from a seven-year-old?" Molly fixed him with a withering stare that could curdle milk at forty paces. She had perfected this expression over years of partnership, deploying it whenever Bill's conscience made unwelcome appearances. "Those presents contain approximately four thousand dollars worth of merchandise. Electronics, gift cards, that ridiculously expensive doll that blinks and costs more than my first car. Sophia Henderson has three other birthdays worth of toys she hasn't opened yet." "Three birthdays?" "Her grandmother has a shopping addiction. The kid won't notice." Bill considered this moral mathematics and apparently found it acceptable. He pulled a clipboard from the backseat, their favorite prop for looking official and unremarkable. "So we pose as party supply delivery, slip in during the princess chaos, load up, slip out." "Simple as breathing." "Our plans are never simple as breathing." Molly smiled, folding her napkin blueprint with practiced precision. She had to admit he had a point. Their last simple job had ended with Bill dangling from a fire escape in a gorilla costume while she negotiated with an aggressive Pomeranian. "Then let's say simple as breathing with a head cold."