The interior of the rusted Econoline van smelled overwhelmingly of stale corn chips and the unique, metallic tang of anxiety. Bill shifted his weight, the cold steel of a crowbar digging into his thigh, and pressed his face against the tinted window. Outside, the suburban landscape was deceptively quiet, save for the rhythmic thumping of bass from a minivan parked three houses down. The target, a two-story colonial at the end of the cul-de-sac, was a fortress of innocence. A sprawling banner featuring a cartoon dinosaur hung limp in the humidity, announcing the arrival of someone named Timmy’s fifth birthday. "Are you seeing what I’m seeing, Molly?" Bill asked, lowering the high-powered binoculars. His voice was tight, laced with the hesitation of a man who had knocked over liquor stores but drew the line at disrupting cake consumption. "I’m seeing pure, unadulterated opportunity, Bill," Molly replied, leaning forward from the passenger seat until her nose nearly touched the glass. She adjusted the grip on her tactical belt, which currently held a lockpick set and a roll of heavy-duty garbage bags. "Look at the sheer volume by the patio doors. It’s a mountain of cardboard and gold foil." Bill watched as a mime in a striped shirt silently juggled bowling pins for a group of screaming toddlers. The backyard was a chaotic sea of noise, a distraction so perfect it felt like divine intervention. To anyone else, the pile of gifts was just plastic detritus destined to be broken or forgotten within a week. To Molly, however, it was a payday. Untraceable assets. High-demand electronics wrapped in paper that featured reindeer in July. It was morally gray, sure, but the rent was due and the pawn shop guy wasn't asking questions. "But they’re children, Molls," Bill whispered, gesturing vaguely toward the party. "Tiny, sticky humans. If we take these, we aren’t just thieves. We’re monsters. We’re the Grinch. We’re the bad guys in a Pixar movie." "We are providing a service, Bill," Molly snapped, turning to him with eyes that burned with a terrifying intensity. "We are preventing a generation of entitlement. Timmy has twenty presents there. He does not need twenty presents. He needs one. We are redistributing the wealth to people who appreciate it—specifically, us. Now, check the watch." Bill sighed heavily, the sound rattling around the cramped van. He looked at his watch, then back at the mime who was now trapped in an invisible box to the delight of the crowd. The security was non-existent. The parents were busy chugging rosé. The loot was unguarded. It was the easiest score of their lives, even if it meant spending eternity in a special circle of hell reserved for party crashers. "Wait," Bill said, squinting harder. "Is that a real police car or a bounce house shaped like a police car?" "It’s a bounce house, you amateur. Keep your head in the game." "Fine," Bill grumbled, gripping the door handle. "But if I see a bicycle, I’m taking the bicycle." "No vehicles! Focus on the small electronics. We move when they bring out the piñata. Go, go, go!"