Molly adjusted the balaclava over her face, though the humidity in the unmarked van made it feel like wearing a sweater composed entirely of wet hamsters. Outside the fogged windows, the suburban house vibrated with the chaotic energy of thirty sugared-up six-year-olds celebrating a birthday. Bill sat opposite her, meticulously sharpening a plastic spoon with a nail file. He looked ridiculous, like a raccoon trying to perform surgery. The target was the gift table, located precariously close to the bouncy castle, which currently sounded like a low-frequency earthquake. Intelligence, gleaned from a public Facebook event page, suggested heavy parental presence near the cake, but the perimeter was guarded only by a sleepy golden retriever. "Do you really think a plastic spoon is the right tool for this job?" Molly asked. "It's subtle, non-threatening, and fits in my pocket," Bill replied confidently. Molly sighed, checking the exit strategy. They had a three-minute window between the magic show and the cake cutting. Bill checked his watch, a stolen Rolex that had stopped ticking weeks ago. They needed to get in, grab the brightly wrapped boxes, and get out before the terrifying clown finished his balloon animal routine. The stakes were high, mostly because Molly feared clowns more than prison.