The blueprints of the Henderson residence were spread across the hood of their battered sedan, illuminated by a single, struggling flashlight. Bill, a man whose face was a roadmap of poor decisions, traced a finger along the driveway. “Okay, security’s a joke. A garden gnome with a motion sensor that probably only detects squirrels. The parents are out for their ‘anniversary,’ which means they’ll be three bottles of wine deep and arguing at a steakhouse by eight. Our window is perfect.” Molly, perched on the fender, meticulously cleaned a set of lockpicks with a silk cloth. She didn’t look up. “You said that about the Dunnington job, Bill. The ‘joke’ security was a Rottweiler named Jaws who took a significant chunk out of your left calf.” “Jaws was an outlier. This is a seven-year-old’s birthday party. The only threat is sugar-induced hyperactivity.” He tapped a point on the map. “We go in through the side gate while they’re all in the back, watching some guy in a sagging Spider-Man costume make balloon animals. In, grab, out. We’ll be heroes of the anti-corporate-gifting underground.” “We’re stealing brightly coloured boxes of plastic from children, Bill. We’re not exactly Robin Hood.” “It’s a statement, Molly. A statement against the commercialisation of imagination. Besides, I saw at least three boxes with the latest ‘Galaxy Guardians’ action figure sets. Those things are worth a fortune on the resale market. Think of it as recycling.” “I’m thinking of the noise. Have you ever heard a group of seven-year-olds? It’s like a wall of sound composed entirely of screams and demands for juice. One of them will see us.” “That’s why you have the lollipops,” Bill said, patting a large bag by his feet. “Distractionary confectionery. You throw a handful of these into the air, and it’s like chum in a shark tank. They’ll be too busy fighting over the flavours to notice two adults absconding with their loot. It’s a flawless plan.” Molly finally looked at him, a single, skeptical eyebrow raised. “And the presents? How are we getting them out? Are we going to carry armfuls of gift-wrapped boxes past the bouncy castle?” “Of course not. We’re not amateurs. We’re using the piñata.” “The piñata.” “Yes! We grab a big, empty one from the garage. We stuff it with the smaller presents. We walk it right out the front door. Nobody questions a man carrying a piñata away from a party. They’ll probably thank me for taking it.” He beamed, clearly proud of his own ingenuity. Molly sighed, a long, weary sound that spoke of years spent listening to Bill’s “flawless plans.” She snapped her lockpick case shut with a click. “Fine. But if I get glitter on my new coat, I’m using your share of the Galaxy Guardians to buy a new one. And I’m taking the purple lollipop.”