Molly adjusted her night vision goggles, which made the suburban split-level look like a glowing green funhouse of sin. She jabbed Bill in the ribs with her elbow, nearly knocking the clown nose off his face. "This is beneath us," Bill whispered, tugging at the ruffled collar of his jester costume. The polyester itched like fiberglass dipped in shame. "We used to rob museums." Molly checked her watch. Inside the Thompson residence, thirty-seven first-graders were currently screaming the lyrics to Baby Shark while hopped up on cake. She explained that their last job had left them bankrupt, owing money to people who collected fingers, while this suburban nightmare offered no security cameras, one parent stationed at the door who was already three sangrias deep, and merchandise consisting of untraceable gift cards, cash from grandma, and approximately fourteen Nintendo Switches. Bill sighed, watching a balloon animal artist through the bay window. The guy was currently struggling to make a giraffe while a sticky toddler pulled his suspenders. "I just think we agreed on a code. No hospitals. No churches. And definitely no juice boxes." Molly slapped a blueprint of the living room onto the dashboard. The X marked the spot beside a cartoon princess couch where Billy-the-Birthday-Boy's mom always stacked the presents for the grand opening. "We go in through the garage, walk out with three Hefty bags during the piñata. Thirty seconds." "Why do I have to be the magician?" Bill picked at a sequin on his sleeve that was shedding glitter like dandruff. "Because I look better as the fairy princess, and we both know it." Molly pulled a glitter bomb from her tactical vest. "You tumble in, trip over the coffee table, release the smoke machine. I grab the loot." Bill stared at the house, where the clown was now attempting to twist a poodle while being attacked by children wielding plastic lightsabers. "That kid is turning six. He's going to cry." "We're teaching him about materialism. Really, we're like Robin Hoods of the jungle gym." "Robin Hood gave to the poor." "And we're poor, Bill. Extremely poor." She checked her glitter-camouflaged pistol. "Now wipe that frown off before it smears your makeup. We've got a Pin the Tail on the Donkey game to crash." Bill adjusted his jester hat, the bells jingling with the sound of broken dreams. "If I get sticky fingerprints on my lockpicks from that cake, you're buying new ones." "Deal," Molly said, stepping into the afternoon sun. "Try not to get mauled by the face-painter. And remember—if anyone asks, you're Professor Zanypants." "God help me," Bill muttered. "Now smile. We're about to be the worst birthday surprise since the plague."