Molly adjusted her binoculars, the rubber eyepieces squeaking against her domino mask. From their vantage point behind a suspiciously out-of-place garden gnome, the suburban backyard looked like a warzone of sugar-fueled chaos. A bouncy castle shuddered violently under the weight of twenty screaming first-graders, while a harried father in a "World's Okayest Dad" apron burned hot dogs on a grill. The smell of charcoal and desperation wafted over the fence. Bill checked his watch, a complicated diver’s device that currently displayed the tide tables for a beach three states away. He was dressed entirely in black, which was unfortunate given it was high noon in July. The sun reflected off his bald spot like a homing beacon, completely blowing their camouflage. He wiped a steady stream of sweat from his forehead. "The target is moving," Molly whispered. "It's a toddler, Molly," Bill sighed. "A toddler with a Nintendo Switch," she countered. "Left the screen door open," he noted. Molly nudged him, pointing toward the patio. The mountain of glistening loot sat on a picnic table, unguarded except for a sleeping grandmother and a cat wearing a party hat. It was a perilous landscape. Streamers hung like booby traps, and the floor was littered with landmines made of dropped cake and juice boxes. They had trained for bank vaults and museum skylights, not this. Bill took a deep breath, steeling himself for the auditory assault of the Happy Birthday song. He checked his pockets for the crucial equipment: industrial-grade wrapping paper scissors and a decoy stuffed bear.