The moon hung low over Oakridge Estates, casting a silvery sheen across the plastic dinosaurs guarding the Johnson family’s front yard. Molly crouched behind a inflatable T-Rex, her black ski mask already askew as she adjusted the walkie-talkie clipped to her utility belt—customized with glitter glue to read “Heist Queen.” Bill stumbled up behind her, tripping over what appeared to be a rogue plastic triceratops. “This is the dumbest heist I’ve ever agreed to,” he whispered, wrestling his foot free. “We broke into a bank last month with armed guards and motion sensors. And now we’re stealing Legos from a bunch of six-year-olds?” Molly turned, eyes blazing beneath her mask. “You said you wanted to go smaller. ‘Less risk,’ you said. ‘More manageable,’ you said. Well, this is manageable. And the Johnsons? Loaded. Their kid got a drone for his birthday. A drone, Bill. With facial recognition.” “Which it probably used to record us arriving,” Bill muttered, glancing at the blinking red light on the drone now hovering near a pinata shaped like a unicorn. “Relax. I brought the counter-jammer.” Molly patted a fanny pack that smelled suspiciously of sour gummy worms. “Besides, have you seen the loot under that table? There’s a limited-edition unicorn-themed espresso machine. Adults are clearly funding this party.” “Still feels immoral.” “You stole a gold-plated toilet seat from Buckingham Palace.” “That was symbolic protest art!” “And this,” Molly said, brandishing a tiny grappling hook the size of a toothbrush, “is capitalism at its finest.” They crept forward, dodging a game of musical chairs being administered by a man in a banana costume. A disco ball spun lazily above, scattering light over a mountain of wrapped gifts labeled in crayon. Molly paused, peering around a bounce house shaped like a castle. “Okay. Phase one: distraction. You get the clown to fall into the cake.” Bill blinked. “How?” “You’re good with pie throwing. Use that energy.” “I haven’t thrown a pie since ’19. And that was a political statement.” “Bill, I love that you care about pie semantics, but the clown is guarding the gift pile. Distract him. I’ll grab the presents.” Bill sighed, grabbed a coconut cream pie from a nearby buffet table—“They won’t miss one,” he mumbled—and lumbered toward the clown, who was attempting to inflate a balloon animal giraffe. Molly darted to the table, stuffing presents into a red wagon decorated with stickers that read “World’s Best Grandma.” She paused at a box with a tag: *To: Timmy, From: Santa (Mom got me this one early).* “Santa’s involved now?” she muttered. A sudden scream cut through the music. Bill, eyes wide, stood frozen, pie in hand, two feet from the clown, who was staring at him with a mix of betrayal and frosting. “You missed,” Molly whispered into the walkie-talkie. “I panicked! He looked sad!” “Forget it!” She yanked the wagon free just as the disco ball flickered and the lights went out. The children screamed. The banana mascot tripped. The drone swooped erratically, now broadcasting live to someone’s phone. Molly grabbed Bill’s arm. “Move!” They sprinted across the lawn, the wagon rattling like Santa’s sleigh during a landslide. Behind them, a chorus of tiny voices chanted, “No fair! No fair!” As they reached the street, Bill glanced back. “We forgot the espresso machine.” “We’ve got bigger problems,” Molly hissed, pointing at the drone now chasing them down the block, buzzing like an angry hornet with Wi-Fi. “Next time,” Bill panted, “we rob a retirement home.” “Promises, promises.”