Molly adjusted the rearview mirror for the tenth time, scrutinizing the adhesive strip holding her fake mustache in place. It was itchy, synthetic, and slightly crooked, giving her the appearance of a confused midwestern uncle rather than a hardened criminal mastermind. The interior of the van smelled faintly of stale coffee and the rubbery scent of Bill’s disguise, which currently sat in a pile on the dashboard. Beside her, Bill was wrestling with a spool of neon pink ribbon, his thick fingers looking like oversized sausages trying to perform microsurgery. He cursed under his breath as the ribbon curled into a tight knot. The target was a sprawling suburban colonial at the end of the cul-de-sac, currently pulsating with the audible chaos of a sugar-high-induced riot. Through the bay windows, Molly could see a blur of movement—tiny, frantic shapes bouncing off the walls like ping-pong balls in a clothes dryer. "You're going to tangle it," Molly warned, keeping her eyes on the prize. "And if you tangle it, we're not cutting the security lines. We're just going home. I’m not explaining to the fence why we brought a ball of yarn instead of the goods." Bill huffed, finally snapping the ribbon with his teeth. "It’s for the gift bags, Mol. We need to look like we belong. Who shows up to a six-year-old's birthday without a festive bow? It raises suspicion. We have to blend in with the parental units." "Thieves, Bill. Thieves show up without festive bows." Molly checked the manifest on her lap, the paper illuminated by the streetlamp outside. The target was the living room corner, specifically the mountain of brightly wrapped boxes that likely contained high-end electronics and hard-to-find action figures. The intel suggested a games console and a limited-edition pony that retailed for three hundred dollars online. The stakes were high, and the security was surprisingly tight for a first-grader's party. "What's the sit-rep on the perimeter?" she asked, tapping her pen against the steering wheel. Bill peered through a pair of binoculars that were clearly stamped 'Property of the Police Department' on the side. "Inflatable obstacle course in the backyard. It’s huge. It blocks the sightline to the back door. Also, I saw a clown go in ten minutes ago. He had a saxophone. It sounded like a goose dying in a wind tunnel." "Clowns are unpredictable," Molly muttered, scratching the mustache. The air in the van was getting stuffy. "Keep an eye on him. If he starts making balloon animals, we move to the flank. We go in through the side gate, avoid the bouncy castle—which I assume is guarded by that large man in the 'World's Best Dad' t-shirt eating a hot dog—and we hit the present table. Two minutes in, two minutes out. Grab and go. No deviations." Bill shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the vinyl squeaking under his weight. "What if a kid sees us? I can't handle the guilt, Molly. Not on a birthday. Last time, that little girl asked if I was Santa's helper, and I had to give her my watch. It was a Rolex, Mol. A Rolex." "You are wearing a ski mask, Bill. Just tell them you're a ninja. Kids love ninjas." Molly popped the door handle, the cool evening air rushing in to combat the van's stale atmosphere. "And for the love of everything holy, do not touch the cake. We are strictly on a liquid diet until the job is done. I saw you eyeing the cupcakes." "They had sprinkles," Bill defended weakly, his voice cracking slightly. He stuffed the pink ribbon into his pocket and pulled his mask down over his face. It was neon green. "Do you think the sprinkles are poisoned? No, wait, that's the wrong genre." Molly sighed, stepping out into the shadows and checking the perimeter one last time. "Focus. We are professionals. We are about to rob a first-grader. We need to be sharp. Now, let's go make some children cry."