Molly adjusted her binoculars, the plastic rim digging sharply into her eye sockets. Through the bay window of 42 Maple Drive, the enemy was visible: twenty seven-year-olds hopped up on sucrose. Bill crouched beside her in the azaleas, unwrapping a granola bar with all the subtlety of a chainsaw massacre. "Do you have to do that now?" Molly whispered, her voice tight with agitation. "I get nervous on stakeouts," Bill replied, crumbs tumbling down his black turtleneck. "Low blood sugar makes me sloppy." "You're breathing like a steam engine. Keep it down or the lookouts will spot us." "They’re children, Molly. They aren't lookouts. They’re obsessed with that bouncy castle." "That bouncy castle is the perimeter defense. It draws their attention away from the prize. Now, check the entry point." Bill squinted toward the side gate. "It's open. Too easy. It feels like a trap. Where are the laser grids? The pressure sensors?" "It’s a suburban birthday party, Bill. Not the Louvre. The only pressure sensor is a mother wondering if she bought enough juice boxes." "I don't like it. It’s sloppy security. There is no honor in stealing from amateurs." "We aren't here for honor. We’re here for the loot. Specifically, the haul by the fireplace. I saw a LEGO set the size of a compact car." Bill’s eyes widened in the darkness. "The Star Wars edition?" "The Ultimate Collector Series. Worth six hundred on the secondary market. Now, move out." They scurried across the lawn, sticking to the shadows of the fence line. Bill tripped over a garden gnome, barely catching himself on a pink plastic flamingo before he face-planted into the turf. "Graceful," Molly muttered. "Real cat burglar stuff." "The terrain is uneven. Who puts a gnome in the middle of a lawn? It’s a hazard." "It’s landscaping. Focus on the door." They reached the kitchen entrance. Molly pulled a slim tension wrench from her pocket, inserting it into the lock with practiced ease. She twisted her wrist, listening for the tell-tale click. "It's already unlocked," she noted, frowning at the knob. "See?" Bill whispered. "Careless. It’s insulting." "Stop taking it personally and get the bags ready." "I just think if you’re going to host a major event, you should have better protocols." "Open the sack, Bill." Bill unfurled the velvet loot bag. He peered inside, scrutinizing the fabric. "Wait, did I bring the right one? This smells like mothballs." "It’s the only one we have. Just grab the boxes and go. We are in and out in two minutes." They crept into the hallway. The roar of the party in the living room provided ample audio cover, a chaotic symphony of screams and popping balloons. Bill pointed toward the pile of presents, his hand trembling slightly. "Look at that mountain," he whispered. "It’s majestic. Like Everest but made of wrapping paper." "Grab the big ones first. We need velocity. Go left, I’ll go right." "What if there are cards attached? Do we read them? I feel like we should acknowledge the sentiment." "We don't read the cards. We steal the gifts. That is the transaction." "I’m just saying, little Timmy might have written something touching." "Little Timmy is currently face-first in a slice of pizza. Grab the box." Bill lunged for the largest package, a rectangular box wrapped in shiny blue paper. He hefted it under his arm, straining under the weight. "Heavy," he grunted. "This is electronics. I can feel the circuit boards." "Perfect. Secure the package." "Wait. This tag says ‘From Grandma.’ I can’t steal from a grandmother, Molly. That’s bad juju." "Grandma isn't here. Grandma is at a bingo hall three towns over. Take it." "But the guilt. The generational trauma." "I will hurt you, Bill. Put the box in the bag." Bill hesitated, looking down at the handwritten tag. "What if she knitted a sweater? You can’t fence a sweater." "It’s a robotics kit! I can see the picture through the wrapping. Put it in the bag!" The sound of a shrill whistle cut through the house. A mother’s voice called out for cake time. Bill flinched, dropping the box. It landed with a heavy, plastic thud on the hardwood floor. "Abort!" Molly hissed. "You compromised the objective!" "It slipped! My hands are sweaty!" "You’re a disgrace to the profession." "I’m a sensitive criminal!" "Run. Now." They scrambled back toward the kitchen door, the sounds of the party masking their frantic retreat. They burst out into the cool night air, sprinting for the hedge without looking back. "We didn't get anything!" Bill gasped as they vaulted the fence. "We survived," Molly countered, checking her watch. "That’s a win." "I really wanted that robot," Bill sulked as they jogged toward the getaway car. "Next time, leave your conscience in the van." "Next time, we pick a target with better locks."