Molly adjusted her binoculars, watching the colorful bounce house deflate slowly like a dying marshmallow in the sweltering afternoon sun. Beside her, Bill practiced his lock-picking technique on a Tupperware container filled with stale goldfish crackers, his brow furrowed in deep concentration as the plastic lid refused to surrender. "Why target children's parties?" Bill whispered nervously. "Less security," Molly said. "The loot is untraceable." They studied the target through the windshield: a suburban bungalow decorated with enough primary colors to trigger an epileptic seizure. Inside, thirty sugar-crazed seven-year-olds were systematically destroying a colorful piñata shaped like a weeping unicorn while shrieking at frequencies that could shatter reinforced glass. The presents sat stacked by the sliding glass door, wrapped in glitter paper that would leave forensic evidence on their hands for weeks and ruin their fingerprints forever. Bill donned his ridiculous disguise: a bright red clown nose and a crooked name tag reading "Entertainment Coordinator." Molly pulled on an oversized mascot head that smelled vaguely of mothballs, despair, and deep existential regret. Bill checked his battered watch and nodded grimly toward the sliding door. "Ready?" Molly adjusted the oversized cartoon eyes with her trembling, gloved hands. "Let's steal some Legos."