Molly squinted through her binoculars at the suburban house, its front yard an explosion of pink balloons and a banner reading Happy 7th Birthday Princess Sparkle. "Tell me again why we're doing this," Bill whispered from behind the hedge. "Because those presents are wrapped in gold paper, Bill. Gold paper means rich kids. Rich kids mean expensive gifts." Bill scratched his head. "I don't know, Molly. Stealing from children feels... wrong somehow." "We're not stealing from children. We're stealing from their parents who probably claimed these gifts as tax write-offs anyway." The sound of shrieking laughter erupted from the backyard. Bill flinched. "What's our entry point?" he asked. "Through the bounce house. Nobody questions adults crawling out of a bounce house." "That's insane." "That's genius." Molly pulled out a hand-drawn map of the property, complete with stick figures and what appeared to be a dragon near the gift table. "What's that supposed to be?" "The family dog. Pomeranian. Vicious." Bill stared at his partner of fifteen years. They had robbed museums, banks, and once a moving train. Yet here they crouched, dressed as party clowns, preparing to face their most unpredictable adversaries yet.