Bill adjusted the binoculars, the vinyl of the driver's seat sticking to his back. Across the street, a chaotic rainbow of bouncy castle and streamers marked the target’s location. A small horde of sugar-fueled seven-year-olds swarmed a man in a top hat, who was attempting to pull a never-ending scarf from his sleeve. Molly, beside him, sketched a crude map on a napkin, her expression grim. She circled the patio table, a veritable mountain of gaily wrapped loot. The prize. Bill lowered the binoculars, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. He’d cracked safes with less emotional baggage. “The magician is our distraction,” Molly whispered, pointing a pen. “When he makes the dove appear, that’s our signal. We move.” Bill snorted. “You want us to run through a minefield of offspring and sticky fingers for a bunch of Lego sets?” “It’s not Lego, it’s ‘Glimmer-Gems Unicorn Construction,’” she corrected, her voice tight. “The intel says the big box from Grandma Carol is the mother lode.” Bill peered again. “The one wrapped in cartoon puppies? Mols, we’re stealing a child's birthday. That’s not a heist, that’s a reason to go to hell.”