Molly lowered her binoculars, the cheap plastic leaving red rings around her eyes that made her look like a reverse raccoon. The target was a suburban fortress, a beige stucco compound defended by a bouncy castle moat and a petting zoo perimeter. From inside the open garage, the sound of screaming children drifted out, a high-pitched frequency designed to shatter glass and sanity alike. "We go in through the side gate," Molly whispered, tapping a crayon-drawn map taped to the dashboard. "Neutralize the clown, grab the loot, and get out before the piñata breaks. Timing is everything." Bill scratched his chin, his eyes darting nervously toward the lawn where a man in oversized shoes was twisting balloons into terrifying shapes. "I don’t like the clown variable, Mol. Clowns are unpredictable. They have no skeletal structure to restrain them. Plus, I heard he makes balloon animals. That takes focus. Dedication." "The clown is a non-combatant unless he spots us," Molly snapped, checking the reload on her glue gun. "Focus, Bill. The haul is estimated at three next-gen gaming consoles, a boutique doll collection, and roughly four hundred dollars in gift cards. It’s the score of a lifetime." "It’s a birthday party for a six-year-old," Bill pointed out, adjusting his rearview mirror to check for patrol cars or angry parents. "I feel like we’re lowering our standards. Remember when we stole the Monet?" "That was a print from a museum gift shop, Bill, and we left it on the bus. Now, are you ready to deploy the distraction?" "I still think the skunk was a bad idea. The smell lingers." "It’s a tactical advantage. The parents will be too busy airing out the house to notice us shoving Xboxes into our duffel bags. Now, hand me the comms gear." Bill reached into the glove box, bypassing a stack of unpaid parking tickets, and handed her two bright pink walkie-talkies covered in glitter stickers. "Why are these pink?" "They were on sale," Bill said defensively, shrinking into his seat. "Plus, they match the theme. It’s called camouflage, Molly. Look it up." "Camouflage implies blending in," she argued, shoving the radio into her tactical vest. "Glitter stands out. It’s the herpes of craft supplies. Once it’s on you, it’s there forever." "Stop being dramatic. We have a window of exactly four minutes while they sing 'Happy Birthday.' That’s when the candles are blown out. Lights out. Literally." "And if they don’t blow the candles out?" "Then we have a problem," Bill admitted. "Because I didn’t pack the fire extinguisher. I packed the smoke bombs." Molly stared at him, her jaw tightening until she heard a distinct click. "You packed smoke bombs for a room full of children? We’re thieves, Bill, not war criminals. We can’t blind the toddlers." "It’s theatrical! It adds drama to the exit. Every great heist needs a signature style." "Our signature style is currently 'incompetent adults in a minivan,'" Molly countered, checking her watch. "Just keep the engine running. If I give the signal—three clicks on the pink radio—you floor it." "What’s the signal if something goes wrong?" "Screaming," Molly said, opening the passenger door. "Lots of screaming." "Got it," Bill nodded, unwrapping a stolen fun-size candy bar. "Good luck in there. Try not to step on a duck." "It’s a petting zoo, Bill. I think I can handle a goat." "It’s not the goat I’m worried about. It’s the goose. Geese are the sentries of nature. They have teeth on their tongues, Molly. On their tongues." "Stay in the car," Molly hissed, slipping out into the afternoon sun. She crouched behind a hedge, watching the enemy line. The sugar rush was imminent. The chaos was about to begin.