The van was parked three houses down, engine off, windows cracked just enough to let the stench of stale coffee escape. Molly adjusted the focus on her binoculars, the lenses humming softly as they zeroed in on the suburban fortress at 42 Maple Drive. It was a terrifying display of disposable income. Banners fluttered in the wind, a bouncy castle inflated with a low mechanical drone, and the target sat unguarded on the porch: a mountain of wrapping paper and ribbons that represented six months of rent. "We have a visual on the payload," Molly whispered, scribbling notes on the back of a grocery receipt. "It’s bigger than we thought. We’re going to need a bigger bag." Bill sat in the driver’s seat, wrestling with the foil wrapper of a gas station burrito. Crumbs dusted his black turtleneck, undermining the serious atmosphere Molly was trying to cultivate. He chewed loudly, staring at the house with a distinct lack of urgency. "It’s a six-year-old's birthday party, Molly," Bill said, wiping cheese from his chin. "Do we really need the tactical gear? I feel like I’m overdressed. There’s a guy in the yard dressed as a dinosaur. He’s not wearing a ski mask." "The dinosaur is a professional, Bill. We are professionals. Or at least, I am." Molly lowered the binoculars and glared at him. "And the mask stays on. We aren't just stealing toys; we're stealing childhood wonder. It requires gravitas." "I just think we could have parked closer," Bill muttered. "My knees are cramping." "If we park closer, the clown spots us. You want to deal with a clown? They have unpredictable behavior patterns." "I can take a clown," Bill insisted, puffing out his chest. "I fought a mime once. It was a silent victory." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "Focus. The magician goes inside in five minutes for his 'Grand Illusion.' That’s when the parents get distracted looking for the hidden rabbit. We slip in through the side gate, neutralize the piñata if necessary, and grab the stack by the swing set." "Neutralize the piñata? It’s paper-mâché." "It’s a horse. It has a target on its stomach. It’s a threat." Molly checked her watch. "Alright, move out. And remember, step lightly. If you set off one of those musical floor mats, I’m leaving you behind." Bill sighed, opening the door and letting in a wave of humid summer air. "Fine. But if there’s cake left unattended, I’m calling an audible." "You touch the cake, you lose a finger," Molly hissed, sliding out of the van and crouching behind a hedge. "Now, follow my lead. And for the love of all that is holy, tuck in your tag. You look like a discount burglar."