Molly adjusted the focus on her high-end binoculars, the rubber eyecups squishing against her face as she peered through the dense foliage of the hydrangea bush. The target was a sprawling suburban bungalow, currently vibrating with the chaotic energy of thirty sugar-crashed six-year-olds. It was a high-risk environment with low visibility and terrifying acoustics. "Status on the package?" Bill whispered, crouching low beside her. He was dressed in tactical black, which unfortunately made him look like a very large, very warm cat burglar. "Stationary," Molly replied, lowering the lenses. "It's a table, Bill. The presents aren't going to sprout legs and walk away. They are piled under the 'Frozen' banner." "You never know," Bill muttered, checking his watch. "Kids have erratic movement patterns. Unpredictable. Plus, I saw a dog." "It's a goldfish, Bill. In a bowl." "Same family. Predatory instincts." Molly snatched the grease-stained napkin from his hand, crumpling it into a ball. She missed the high-stakes glamour of bank vaults and laser grids. This was arguably rock bottom. Stealing a mountain of wrapped plastic from a screaming horde was beneath her pay grade, but the landlord wasn't accepting charisma as payment. "Okay, look at the schematic," Bill whispered, pointing to a smudge of ketchup on the napkin. "The perimeter is guarded by a bouncy castle. It’s an inflatable obstacle course. We bounce, we lose our footing, we expose our flanks." "It's filled with air, Bill. And a kid named Timmy." "Timmy is a variable we cannot control. I say we wait for the cake. That’s the distraction window." She pointed a gloved finger toward the side gate where a teenager in a low-budget pirate costume was currently texting, oblivious to the festivities. He held a large crate labeled 'Captain Jack's Parrot Paradise' in one hand. "We don't have time for cake," Molly hissed. "We need a disguise. We jump the pirate. Take his coat. Walk right in as entertainment." "That involves assault, Molly. I thought we were strictly thieves. I don't have the upper body strength for piracy." "He's wearing eyeliner and a bandana. He's a teenager. Just grab the sword." Bill hesitated, watching the pirate sigh and kick a rock. It was a pathetic sight, but Bill’s criminal confidence had waned since the botched attempt at the retirement home. He looked at Molly, then at the house, where the distinct sound of cheering signaled the cutting of the cake. "Clock is ticking," Molly urged. "They're doing the song. Once the candles blow, the loot is unguarded. Parents will be drunk on punch." "On your signal," Bill said, flexing his fingers. "Go for the knees?" "Go for the knees. I'll grab the hat." "God, I hate birthdays." "Focus, Bill. We're going in." With a synchronized nod, the two thieves emerged from the bushes, charging toward a confused teenager who was about to have a very bad afternoon.