Molly pressed her back against the minivan and peered around the corner at the suburban house. Balloons bobbed from the mailbox, and she could hear children shrieking inside. "This is officially the lowest point of my career," Bill muttered, adjusting his fake mustache. "Oh please, what about the time we robbed that bingo hall?" "That was different. Those seniors were loaded." Molly pulled out a crumpled invitation from her pocket. "According to this, little Timmy Henderson just turned seven. His dad is Marcus Henderson." "The hedge fund guy?" "The very same. Word is, Marcus's business partners send obscenely expensive gifts. We're talking limited edition toys, gold-plated piggy banks, probably a pony." Bill scratched his chin. "How do you fit a pony in wrapping paper?" "Focus, Bill. We go in through the back during the piñata chaos. Everyone will be outside watching some blindfolded kid swing a bat. We grab the present pile and exit through the garage." "What if someone sees us?" "Then we're entertainment. I brought balloon animals." Molly held up a bag of uninflated balloons. "You don't know how to make balloon animals." "Neither do you, but in the chaos, will anyone really care?" They crept along the fence line. A woman's voice rang out from the backyard, calling all the children outside. Bill gave Molly a thumbs up. "This is it. Game time." They slipped through the back gate into the kitchen. The living room was a disaster of streamers and abandoned juice boxes. In the corner sat a magnificent mountain of presents, wrapped in shimmering paper. "Jackpot," Molly whispered. "It's beautiful," Bill said, actually getting misty-eyed. They began stuffing presents into their duffel bags. Outside, children chanted for Timmy to swing harder. "This one's heavy," Bill grunted, shoving a large box into his bag. "That's good. Heavy means expensive." "Or books." "Don't be negative." A toilet flushed nearby. They froze. "Someone's still inside," Bill hissed. A small boy, maybe four years old, wandered into the living room. He stared at them, chocolate cake smeared across his face. "Are you the clowns?" the boy asked. Molly smiled brightly. "Yes! Yes, we're the clowns. Just getting our, uh, props." "You're not wearing funny clothes." "We're minimalist clowns. Very European." "What's your act?" Bill grabbed Molly's balloon bag desperately. "We do balloon animals! Watch this!" He blew up a balloon and twisted it randomly, creating something that looked like a deformed snake having an existential crisis. "That's stupid," the boy said. "Art is subjective, kid," Bill replied. "TIMMY GOT THE PIÑATA!" someone screamed outside. The boy ran toward the backyard. Molly and Bill grabbed their stuffed bags and bolted for the garage, their hearts pounding, their dignity shattered, but their duffel bags reassuringly heavy with the fruits of their most ridiculous heist yet.