The van smelled of old pizza and regret. Molly, perched on a folding chair that groaned under her combat boots, spread a hand-drawn map of the suburban warzone—otherwise known as Timmy’s 7th birthday party—across a wobbly card table. Balloon trajectories were marked in red, cake-based distractions in green, and parental zones in skull-and-crossbones ink. Bill, hunched over a walkie-talkie disguised as a juice box, adjusted the antenna with the reverence of a concert violinist. “Look,” Molly whispered, tapping the backyard bounce house with a pencil capped with a tiny foam cow, “that’s our ingress. Kids start the piñata at 3:15. Chaos. Tears. Possibly vomit. That’s our window.” Bill nodded solemnly, scribbling notes on a napkin labeled “Operation: Frosting Fiasco.” He’d packed the getaway bag with care—grappling hook (disguised as party favors), thermal goggles (hidden inside superhero masks), and a noiseless vacuum for loose glitter currency. A crumpled flyer for “Dance & Destroy: Toddler Edition” fluttered to the floor. Molly didn’t flinch. She’d once stolen a diamond from a circus elephant during naptime. “Minimal contact with cake,” she added. “Last time, you got emotional and ate a whole cupcake.” Bill sighed. “It had sprinkles.” The garage clock ticked. 2:48 p.m. Somewhere, a child squealed. The heist was a go.