Molly paced the linoleum of their safehouse—which was actually her mother’s laundry room—her combat boots squeaking rhythmically against the floor. She stopped to trace a piece of red string connecting a grainy photo of a bouncy castle to a detailed diagram of a diaper bag pinned to the wall. She looked like a general surveying a battlefield, except the terrain was filled with sugar-crazed toddlers and the primary objective was wrapped in Batman wrapping paper. "The target is confirmed," Molly whispered, tapping the map with a menacing fingernail. "The Johnston residence. 2:00 PM. That’s when the parents start hitting the mimosas and lose situational awareness. That’s our window." Bill leaned back in his folding chair, rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands. "Molly, we are talking about a kindergarten graduation party. The security detail is a fourteen-year-old named Kevin wearing a red vest." "Kevin is an unknown variable," Molly snapped, turning to glare at him. "Never underestimate a bored teenager with a Bluetooth speaker. Besides, the payload is immense. I’m talking LEGOs, action figures, possibly a bicycle. We’re talking retail value in the hundreds, Bill." "And the moral value?" Bill asked, gesturing vaguely at the ceiling where a basket of dryer lint threatened to fall. "We’re stealing from children. This is a new low, even for us. Remember the grandma incident?" "That was a misunderstanding regarding ownership of a mobility scooter," she dismissed with a wave of her hand, grabbing a dry-erase marker. "This is business. Now, focus on the extraction plan. We go in dressed as the entertainment. I’ve sourced two inflatable costumes. One dinosaur, one tub of ice cream." Bill looked down at his own stomach, which was already straining against his t-shirt. "I have to be the ice cream?" "You have the girth for it," she said tactlessly, smoothing out a schematic of the backyard. "When the musical chairs game hits its peak, we move. We sweep the gift table into the ice cream suit. It’s got a hidden thermal lining for maximum capacity." "I’m going to be sweating in a polyurethane waffle cone while stuffed with board games," Bill complained, though his eyes drifted to the stack of surveillance photos showing a mountainous pile of presents. "Are we at least sure there’s no dogs? Last time I ended up in a full-body cast because of a Pomeranian." "No dogs. Just a very aggressive parrot." Molly checked her watch, her eyes gleaming with a manic intensity that terrified him. "Suit up, Bill. We have a date with destiny. And if we’re lucky, a PlayStation 5." "It’s a six-year-old, Molly. He's getting a LeapFrog," Bill sighed, trudging toward the closet where the costumes hung like the ghosts of poor decisions past. "Hope springs eternal," Molly called out, loading a grappling hook that was essentially a glorified clothes hanger.