The unmarked van sat parked three houses down, engine ticking as it cooled. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cheap latex disguises and impending larceny. Molly adjusted the rearview mirror, checking the application of her fake mustache, while Bill wrestled with a blueprint that was clearly just a crayon drawing of a house he’d found on the sidewalk. "I’m just saying, the logistics are a nightmare," Bill said, tapping a waxy blue mark on the paper. "You saw the guest list. Twenty kids. That’s twenty potential witnesses, Molly. Twenty tiny, sticky witnesses." "They’re six years old, Bill. Their testimony won’t hold up in court," Molly replied, smoothing out her oversized "Party Mom" t-shirt. "Besides, their vision is based on movement. If we stand still near the buffet, we’re invisible." "That’s raptors, Molly. You’re thinking of raptors. These are children. They have an acute sense for strangers, and they can smell fear. Or candy. Probably candy." "Focus. We go in through the side gate. I’ve already disabled the inflatable dinosaur. It’s currently deflating into a sad plastic puddle. That eliminates the primary sentry." "You killed the bouncy T-Rex? That’s cold. That was the entertainment." "It was an obstacle. Now, the timeline is critical. At 14:00 hours, the magician performs his big finale. He pulls a rabbit out of a hat. The room goes dark for dramatic effect." "Why does the room go dark for a rabbit? Rabbits aren't nocturnal." "Dramatic lighting, Bill! Keep up. When the lights drop, we hit the gift table. It’s a smash and grab. You bag the Barbies, I bag the electronics. We meet back at the van." "What if there are gift bags? Those are awkward to carry. The tissue paper crinkles. It makes a sound." "That’s why we brought the reinforced laundry sacks. Now, check your earpiece." Bill fiddled with a flesh-colored wire winding out of his ear. "It’s picking up static. Or maybe it’s just the sound of my own guilt. Are we really stealing from a six-year-old?" "We are redistributing wealth. We are taking from the spoiled and giving to... us. We have rent, Bill. Timmy has a trust fund and loving parents." "He’s a nurse and a fireman’s kid. He probably just has a piggy bank." "With a surprising amount of disposable income directed toward plastic merchandise. Look at the target." Through the windshield, they watched a cluster of balloons drift across a manicured lawn. The sound of high-pitched screaming—laughter or terror, it was hard to tell—drifted through the cracked window. "There it is," Bill whispered, eyes widening. "The prize. I see a box wrapped in shiny blue paper. That’s got the weight of a premium Lego set." "Nice eye. I see a dollhouse in the corner. Flat-pack, easy to maneuver. Grab the corner, don't rip the paper. We need to fence these in mint condition." "I still feel bad about the clown." "Forget the clown. The clown is a distraction. You slip past him while he’s making a balloon giraffe." "What if he makes me a balloon giraffe? It would be rude to refuse." "Refuse the giraffe, Bill! We are professionals. In, out, and nobody gets hurt. Unless someone gets in the way of the ice cream cake." "I want a slice of cake, actually. Can we steal a slice of cake?" "We steal the presents. The cake is evidence. Now, put on your party hat. You look too much like a career criminal." Bill pulled a neon cone over his eyes, the elastic snapping against his chin. "How about now?" "Terrifying. Let’s move."