Molly adjusted the focus on the high-powered binoculars, the expensive glass clicking softly in the stagnant, humid air trapped within the parked van. Below them, the suburban lawn was a chaotic minefield of squealing laughter and scattered primary-colored plastic. To the untrained eye, it was simply a six-year-old’s birthday bash celebrating a questionable milestone. To Molly, it was Fort Knox with a very hazardous bounce house. The sheer audacity of the plan was not lost on her, but the payout in unopened video games was too high to ignore. "Visual confirmation on the prize," Molly whispered, lowering the glasses to rub the bridge of her nose. "Top of the dining room table. A stack of boxes wrapped in sparkly unicorn paper. Minimum estimated value is four hundred dollars of premium LEGO sets and cheap electronics." Bill wiped a smear of raspberry donut glaze from his black tactical vest, looking unusually nervous. He stared out the window at the house where a stream of sugar-fueled anarchists were currently running in aggressive circles, their faces smeared with chocolate and potential biological hazards. "Molly, are we sure about this? The security is incredibly tight today. I see at least three moms wearing 'Super Mom' t-shirts. They look ruthless." "We’ve faced armed guards in Zurich, Bill. We can handle a few suburban parents and a possibly aggressive Maltese named Buster," she replied, checking her wrist chronometer with practiced precision. "The window opens in ten minutes when the magician starts the rabbit trick. That’s when we move." "It’s not the moms I’m worried about," Bill muttered, fidgeting nervously with a specialized lockpick. "It’s the clown. Did you see the size of those shoes? If I accidentally step on a honker, the whole operation goes sideways. I can’t go back to prison, Molly. Not for squeaky shoes." Molly sighed, turning to face him. The van smelled faintly of onions and desperation. "The clown is a variable, Bill. Focus on the objective. We go in through the side gate, blend in with the hired help, and swap the presents with the decoy empty boxes I prepared in the trunk." "You actually brought empty boxes?" "I wrapped them last night. They look exactly like the real ones, except they’re filled with old newspapers and ethical compromises," she said sharply. "You grab the unicorn pile. I’ll secure the goody bags. Those bags have full-sized Snickers. We don’t leave a man behind." Bill took a deep breath, puffing out his chest slightly to summon his courage. "Okay. Okay. I can do this. For the Snickers." "For the Snickers," Molly agreed, pushing the van door open. "And remember, if anyone asks, you’re Uncle Kevin from out of town. You’re slightly divorced and you drink too much soda." "I don't have to juggle, do I?" "Only if things get hairy," Molly said, stepping out into the blinding afternoon sun. "Now, let’s go ruin some childhoods."