Molly adjusted the binoculars, the plastic rim digging painfully into her eye sockets. From their vantage point behind the neighbor’s prize-winning hydrangeas, the suburban backyard looked less like a lucrative target and more like a tactical nightmare painted in primary colors. A bouncy castle heaved like a diseased lung in the far corner, guarded by a teen clown whose makeup suggested a heavy night of hard drinking. "Target is stationary," Bill whispered, hunched low. He was wearing a tactical vest over a stained Hawaiian shirt, the pockets bulging with zip ties and stolen juice boxes. The objective sat near the patio doors: the gift table. It was a folding banquet groaning under the weight of wrapped boxes, a glittering monument to parental guilt. Easy pickings, theoretically, but the logistics of a six-year-old’s birthday party were surprisingly complex. Parents were everywhere, sipping chardonnay and judging the landscaping with predatory focus. "We wait for the cake," Molly said. "Total chaos." "What about the clown?" Bill asked, trembling slightly. "He is a diversion. Stay sharp, Bill." If they timed it right, they could swoop in during 'Happy Birthday,' grab the loot, and vanish before the inevitable sugar crash hit. It was the perfect crime.