Bill stared intently at the crude schematic drawn on the back of a greasy Denny’s placemat. The architectural lines were shaky, clearly reflecting the nervous tremor in his hand, but the target zone was circled in aggressive red marker. It was a sprawling suburban fortress, complete with a white picket fence that screamed of hidden booby traps or, worse, strict homeowner’s association fines. The air in the van smelled of stale corn chips and desperation. "Are you sure the payload is in the living room?" Bill asked, tapping a coffee stain on the diagram with a greasy finger. "My source on the playground mentioned a potential pool house transfer for the big items." Molly sighed deeply, adjusting the tightness of her tactical belt. She looked less like a criminal mastermind and more like a librarian who had simply lost her temper with a patron over a twenty-five cent late fee. She checked the spring-loaded mechanism of a grappling hook that was, surprisingly, hot pink. "Intel is solid, Bill. The birthday boy turns seven at 1400 hours. The cake cutting initiates at 1420, and the unwrapping phase is scheduled for 1430. We strike at 1431, right when the sugar crash hits the adults." It was a bold move. Stealing from adults was a calculated business transaction, usually involving corporate bonds and boring paperwork; stealing from children was a descent into absolute madness. The resale value on the black market for unopened video game consoles was astronomical, but the auditory risk of six-year-old screams was a variable that couldn't be ignored. Bill picked up a pair of oversized novelty sunglasses from the table. They were neon pink and shaped like stars, terrible for stealth but excellent for disguise. "What about the security detail? The surveillance photos show a clown. A real one, with a wig and everything." "He’s a combatant," Molly warned, checking the battery on a sonic dog whistle. "But I’ve acquired the distraction. Three squeaky tennis balls dipped in high-grade peanut butter. It’ll create a chaotic diversion." Bill nodded, grimacing as he remembered the last time they faced off against a balloon artist. He put on the pink glasses, feeling ridiculous. "And the disguise? You promised we’d go in as the catering staff. I even bought the bow tie." "Change of plans. Too many questions about hors d'oeuvres. We’re going in as the entertainment. You’re the backup dancer." Bill looked at the unicycle leaning against the wall of their safe house, then back at his partner in crime. The rubber tire was deflated and dusty. "Molly, I haven’t ridden a unicycle since the incident at the county fair. My balance is shot." "Then you better start pedaling, cowboy. Because those limited-edition LEGO sets aren’t going to steal themselves." They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their impending larceny hanging heavy in the stale air of the van. Somewhere outside, a car alarm honked, a siren song for the degenerate. Bill cracked his knuckles, resigning himself to a life of petty theft and gravity-based stunts. "Do we take the piñata?" Molly looked at him with dead, shark-like eyes, the reflection of a pile of stolen wrapping paper visible in her gaze. "We take everything, Bill. Even the candy."