Molly pressed her binoculars against the windshield and watched the steady stream of minivans pulling into the driveway of 4412 Maple Court. Each vehicle disgorged a small child clutching a wrapped package roughly half their body size. The presents were enormous. The presents were glorious. The presents were going to be theirs. "We're looking at fifteen, maybe twenty gifts," she said, lowering the binoculars and making a note on the clipboard balanced against the steering wheel. "Mostly rectangular. A few odd shapes. One kid just walked in with something that looks like a wrapped bicycle." Bill sat in the passenger seat, squeezing himself into a rented clown suit that smelled aggressively of sweat and corn dogs. The rainbow wig sat on his lap like a dead animal. He tugged at the oversized polka-dot bow tie and frowned at himself in the visor mirror. "A bicycle? We didn't plan for a bicycle. The bicycle changes things, Molly." "The bicycle changes nothing. We stick to the plan." "I'm just saying, a bicycle doesn't fit in the duffel bag." She turned to face him with the patient expression she reserved for moments when Bill was being spectacularly unhelpful. The expression involved one raised eyebrow and a slight flaring of the nostrils, and Bill had learned over their years of partnership to be appropriately terrified of it. "Then we improvise on the bicycle. Everything else goes in the bags. You walk in through the front door during the magic show. I already confirmed with the mom that the magician starts at two fifteen. Every child in that house will be watching a man pull a rabbit out of a hat while you pull a duffel bag out of the coat closet." Bill wrestled one massive red shoe onto his foot and considered this. The shoe honked when he set it on the floor mat, and they both stared at it. "Did you know it did that?" Molly asked. "I did not know it did that." She pinched the bridge of her nose. The shoe situation was not ideal. Stealth was a cornerstone of their operation, and honking footwear represented a significant deviation from stealth. But they were forty minutes from showtime, and the costume shop was across town, and Molly was nothing if not adaptable. She reached into the back seat and produced a roll of duct tape, because Molly always had duct tape the way other people always had opinions. She tossed it to Bill, who understood immediately and began wrapping the soles of both shoes until they were mummified into silence. Through the binoculars, she watched the last minivan arrive. A woman in a party hat taped balloons to the mailbox while a golden retriever tried to eat them. The front door stood wide open. Somewhere inside that suburban fortress, a pile of presents sat unguarded, waiting like treasure in a dragon's cave, except the dragon was a six-year-old named Bethany and the knights were all hopped up on juice boxes. "You remember the exit strategy?" Molly asked. "Back door, through the yard, over the fence, into the alley." "And if someone stops you?" Bill smiled and held up a fistful of balloon animals. "I make them a puppy."