"I’m just saying, there’s a line," Bill said, peering through the binoculars from the driver's seat of the unmarked van. "Banks, sure. Museums, absolutely. Jewelry stores, that’s just Tuesday. But a bouncy castle? That feels like a line we shouldn't cross, Molly." "It’s a rental, Bill, not a sovereign nation," Molly replied, shuffling the hand-drawn blueprints on her lap. "And it happens to be blocking the only blind spot in the backyard fence. It’s a structural anomaly we can exploit. Now, stop whining and tell me what you see." "I see sugar-fueled chaos. I see a piñata that looks suspiciously like a donkey from my nightmares. And I see thirty kids hopped up on red dye number forty. They’re like tiny, sticky piranhas." "Focus on the perimeter. Where are the parents?" "Anxious. Over-caffeinated. One dad is currently trying to light the candles on a cake the size of a compact car. He’s struggling. The wind is not his friend." "Good. Chaos is our ally. When the candle lighting fails, that’s our window. Everyone looks at the cake, we slip past the bouncy castle, and we hit the gift table." "It’s a six-year-old's birthday, Molly. We can't just walk in there." "That’s why we aren't walking. We’re blending. What are you wearing?" "A black turtleneck." "You’re wearing a black turtleneck to a backyard BBQ in July? You look like a beatnik burglar. Put on the Hawaiian shirt I gave you." "I look like a substitute geography teacher in this." "Exactly! You’re invisible. You’re just an uncle here for the free potato salad. I’ll go as the mom who doesn’t want to be there. It’s the perfect disguise." "What about the presents? I saw some pretty small bags. What if it’s just socks? Kids get socks, Molly. We’re not risking a B-and-E for a pack of Hanes." "Look at the wrapping paper on the big boxes. That is shiny, metallic paper. That is the paper of guilty, absent parents buying love with high-end consumer electronics. We’re looking at a tablet, maybe a game console. That pays rent for three months." "Okay, say it is a console. How do we get past the sentries?" "The parents?" "No, the kids. They have a sixth sense for wrapped goods. I touch a present, and thirty heads are going to snap toward me like meerkats. It's unnerving." "That’s why we create a diversion. I’m thinking the piñata." "You want to beat a donkey with a stick?" "I want you to rig the pulley system to snap. The donkey falls, chaos erupts, the kids swarm, and we extract the goods while the parents panic about blunt force trauma." "I don't know. There’s a clown over by the oak tree. He’s making balloon animals. He’s watching, Molly. He knows." "He’s a clown, Bill. He’s thinking about his next gig, not tactical surveillance. Ignore the clown. Wait, the cake is moving. The dad has successfully lit the candles. They’re singing. This is it. Happy birthday to... put on the shirt." "I can't get it over my head in this space!" "Try harder! The singing is hitting the crescendo!" "I’m stuck! My ears are pinned!" "Forget the shirt! Just look like you belong. Walk with purpose. Grab the biggest box. I’ll grab the gift bag with the tissue paper that screams 'money.'" "And if someone stops us?" "Ask them where the restroom is. It’s the universal pass. Nobody questions a man in a turtleneck seeking a toilet." "I look like a burglar, Molly. They’re going to call the cops." "Just grab the presents and run. On my mark. Three... two..." "Wait! The piñata! The donkey is looking at me!" "It’s paper mache, you idiot! Move!"