Molly adjusted her fake mustache in the rearview mirror while Bill studied the bounce house through binoculars. The suburban street was alive with minivans and the distant screech of sugar-fueled chaos. Bill lowered the binoculars and sighed dramatically. His clown wig sat askew on his head, making him look more deranged than festive. "This is definitely our lowest point," Bill muttered. "We've stolen worse," Molly replied. The plan was simple, almost insulting in its simplicity. They would blend in with the party entertainment, grab the present table haul, and vanish before anyone noticed. Bill had even practiced balloon animals, though his creations resembled various crime scenes more than puppies. Molly tucked her water pistol into her oversized polka dot pants. Through the fence, she could see the gift table, a glittering mountain of wrapped boxes that represented either their salvation or their absolute rock bottom. A soccer mom emerged from the house carrying a sheet cake. "Showtime," Molly said. They exited the van, transformed into the world's least convincing party entertainers. Bill's red nose honked when he accidentally bumped the steering wheel. Somewhere, their dignity wept.