The attic smelled of mothballs and forgotten aspirations. Molly crouched beside a cardboard box labeled “Xmas – Do Not Open (Seriously, Dave),” adjusting her ski mask with the precision of a watchmaker. Below, Bill wrestled a sequined unicorn piñata into a duffel bag, its horn snagging on a roll of glitter tape. He cursed silently, knowing full well Molly had forbidden audible grunts after the raccoon incident. She unrolled a blueprint sketched on the back of a pizza coupon. It depicted a suburban living room, complete with napkin fort weak points and optimal cookie-jar extraction angles. A red X marked the gift pile—swaddled in tissue paper and parental hope. Bill tugged a string of fairy lights from his backpack. Molly shook her head and pointed to the window. Too obvious. He shrugged and pulled out a tub of fingerpaint instead. They’d done jewel heists. Bank vaults. Once, they swiped a dinosaur egg from a billionaire’s penthouse (turned out to be marble, but looked fabulous in photos). Yet nothing thrilled quite like stealing toys from under the twitching noses of snack-drunk toddlers. Molly held up three fingers. Then two. Bill smeared green paint across his face like war stripes. We’re professionals, she mouthed. He nodded. Then silently mimed vomiting. At precisely 2:47 p.m., the Chuck E. Cheese theme song began downstairs. The signal. Molly cracked the attic door. Confetti fluttered upward like suspicious snow. “Don’t eat the cupcakes,” she whispered. “They’re drugged.”