Molly adjusted her night vision goggles, which seemed excessive for a Tuesday afternoon in a Subaru hatchback. The tinted windows fogged as she breathed while she scanned the property line, noting the garden gnomes that stared back with judgmental ceramic eyes. A sprinkler ticked across the lawn near a bouncy castle wobbling in the breeze. The suburban cul-de-sac smelled of freshly cut grass and impending culpability. "You're telling me we drove three hours for a piñata?" Bill knocked over a cold coffee while unfurling blueprints across the dashboard. His fingers traced the ranch house with surgical intensity as he explained that Timothy Reginald Henderson the Third's parents were Silicon Valley royalty. The cardboard dragon supposedly contained iPads, crypto wallets, and four Switches, while the invitations were printed on cardstock heavier than his criminal record. He smoothed the creased paper with trembling hands that left smudges on the architectural lines. Molly peered through binoculars at children tumbling through the mesh windows. She tracked a parent carrying juice boxes toward the chaos, noting six adults including two capable of deadlifting SUVs, plus a magician pulling scarves from his sleeves. The birthday boy wore a paper crown slightly askew on his head. "Entertainment," Bill corrected, tapping the glass. "Tactical distraction. We infiltrate through the garage during cake. I've hacked the doorbell. Seventeen-second blind spot." Molly lowered the binoculars. "Seventeen seconds to rob a five-year-old?" "Six," Bill snapped. "Don't go soft. You stole chemo drugs last week." "From a hospital! Not a kid who believes in the Tooth Fairy!" Bill adjusted his turtleneck, having spent three days studying the Zillow listing. He insisted that the Tooth Fairy was exactly why this would work. When the kid lost his tooth during cake, chaos would ensue, allowing them to slip through the side gate, grab the gifts, and vanish. The parents would assume another parent moved the presents to the car. A clown emerged carrying balloons. Molly groaned, sinking lower until her chin touched her collarbone. Bill immediately identified the performer as an accomplice, maintaining that nobody hired clowns unless hiding something. Molly suggested that perhaps the child had requested entertainment, but Bill assured her that was exactly what they wanted her to think. Through the fence slats, they watched Timothy swing a plastic bat at the piñata. Molly checked her watch. "If we're caught, we're monsters who ruined a six-year-old's Jurassic Park party." "Jurassic World," Bill corrected. "Different licensing. We won't get caught. Wine at three PM slows reactions, the Labradoodle is useless, and I've disabled the sprinklers." "You disabled... Bill, this is a colonial, not Fort Knox." "That's where you're wrong." Bill pointed at the mailbox. "ADT. Amateur Dramatic Theater. They take security seriously." "That's Alarm Detection Technology." "Even worse," Bill whispered. "Theatrical alarms are unpredictable." A cheer erupted as the piñata split open, showering children with candy and Apple products. Molly pulled on her gloves. "Fine. But if that clown looks at me, I'm tasing him." "Professionalism, Molly. We tase no one until we're inside."