“Just to confirm, Bill,” Molly whispered, peering through the chain-link fence, “we’re robbing a six-year-old’s birthday party.” “It’s not robbing, it’s reallocating,” Bill corrected, adjusting his black ski mask. “Those children have too much. We’re redistributing the wealth. To us.” “The wealth is a plastic pony that probably sings,” Molly shot back, gesturing towards the bouncy castle. “A singing pony is a liability. It attracts attention. We grab the wrapped goods, we go. Simple.” “Simple? The entire guest list is under four feet tall, Bill. They’re like a swarm of tiny, sticky-fingered security guards.” “That’s why we have the diversion.” He patted a large, paper bag. “Inside this is a live raccoon.” Molly stared at him. “You brought a wild animal to a child’s party?” “He’s trained. Probably. I just point him at the clown and run. You focus on the presents. Remember, no glitter bombs. They’re the ultimate party foul.”