"You're joking," Bill said, adjusting his ski mask in the rearview mirror. "Do I look like I'm joking?" Molly snapped, unfolding a crayon-drawn map across the steering wheel. "The loot's in the living room, guarded by a sleeping dragon—sorry, golden retriever named Muffins." "We're really doing a bouncy castle heist?" "Black ops, Bill. We rappel through the side window while they play musical chairs. The target: forty-seven wrapped packages containing Lego Death Stars, Nintendo Switches, and three life-sized stuffed unicorns." "What about the parents?" "Distracted by the magician. I've got intel that he pulls a rabbit from a hat at exactly 3 PM. That's our fifteen-minute window." "Why not just grab the cake and run?" "Because, genius, the presents are worth eight grand. The birthday boy's dad runs a crypto scam. We're redistributing wealth." "To our bank accounts." "Obviously. Now strap on the utility belt. And remember—if anyone under four feet tall spots us, we're 'balloon safety inspectors.'" "What if they cry?" "Then you do the chicken dance. Distracts them every time. It's in the handbook, page twelve, right between 'lock-picking' and 'advanced cupcake theft.'" "I didn't get a handbook." "You slept through orientation. Again."