Molly adjusted her night-vision goggles, which were actually swimming goggles spray-painted matte black with electrical tape. She traced her trembling finger along a crayon-drawn map of the Hendersons' backyard, noting the tactical positions of the lemonade stand and the papier-mâché piñata hanging like a fragile moon. Bill sat beside her in the stolen minivan, loading a bright orange Nerf gun with surgical precision while muttering darkly about the sacred code of backyard banditry and professional standards. "You're sure the clown distraction will work?" Bill whispered. "Trust me," Molly said. "When the magician releases doves, we rappel down." Bill nodded grimly, securing a hefty trash bag marked SWAG. The target glittered in the afternoon sun: thirty-seven wrapped packages containing rare Lego sets and valuable Nintendo games, guarded by a sleeping golden retriever and one severely distracted parent refilling the giant bowl of corn chips. They reviewed the complicated exit strategy one final time: through the hydrangea hedge, past the inflatable castle, avoiding the toddler minefield of scattered juice boxes and frosting. Molly gave the signal. "Go time now," she said. They burst from the vehicle wearing stolen party hats as ridiculous disguises and mental armor, preparing to outwit a dozen sugar-crazed seven-year-olds and their wrathful parents.