Molly adjusted her balaclava, scratching at the wool irritably while the van smelled of stale fries and desperation, a heady cocktail for a Tuesday afternoon. Bill was peering through binoculars at the suburban house, his breath fogging the glass. Inside, a banner reading "Happy 6th Birthday Timmy!" flapped against the window, mocking their very existence. The plan was simple, albeit humiliating. Wait for the clown to make a balloon animal, rush the back gate, and stuff the swag into pillowcases. It wasn't diamonds, but vintage action figures resold remarkably well on the internet. Bill had insisted on this job, claiming low security, yet he failed to mention the security came in the form of thirty sugar-fueled six-year-olds hopped up on cake. "You got the blueprints?" Molly asked, tapping the wheel. "It's a bouncy castle, Molly, not Fort Knox," Bill replied. She imagined the getaway, sirens wailing, chased by a mob of toddlers wielding sticky lollipops. It was a new low, even for them. The loot wasn't cash, it was plastic and batteries. But rent was due. She stared at the map of the backyard, noting the inflatable dragon guarding the gift table as the primary hurdle. "What if they cry?" Bill asked suddenly. "Then we run faster," Molly said. She checked her watch, gripping the steering wheel tight. Showtime.