The air inside the '92 Shasta smelled aggressively of stale coffee and unwashed upholstery, a distinctive bouquet Molly had cultivated over three years of low-stakes felony. Outside, the suburban afternoon sun beat down with the malice of a thousand judgmental aunts, turning the perfectly manicured lawn to the color of a bruised banana. Across the driveway, a small fleet of expensive, battery-operated toys glinted under the glare, guarded by a golden retriever that looked too dignified to participate in such international-level debauchery. Molly tapped her pen against her notebook, her eyes scanning the target house through the dust of the rear window. "The target's a zero-sum game, Bill. We take the loot, we vanish. It’s elegant." "And the loot?" Bill leaned back, the springs of his folding metal chair groaning in protest. "Everything. The robotics kit, the hamster wheel, the Legos that are already frustrating both parties. It’s pure gold." "You really want that robotics kit? The instructions say it’s for ages ten to fourteen. That’s basically an IQ tax on a toddler." "It’s not IQ we’re stealing, it’s retrieval capability. We need a distraction." "You do the distraction. You go in wearing the moose head." "A moose head? You think I look like a moose?" "You look like a taxidermist’s regret. Just put on the ears." "This is the worst plan we've had since the pumpkins." "Pass the nachos, and stop arguing about the IQ tax." "The IQ tax is real, Molly! You can't tax potential intellect!" "You're the distraction. If you can't focus, who will?" A shadow detached itself from the hedge outside. A clown balloon drifted slowly toward the window, deflating as it floated past the glass. Molly grabbed Bill’s collar and yanked him down into the driver’s seat. "What now?" "Now we wait for the clown to reach the porch. It’s dignified, Bill. It’s classy. Like us."