Molly crouched behind the dense azalea bushes, adjusting her tactical visor while mulch dug into her knees. The afternoon sun glared off the prize table, illuminating stacks of wrapped boxes that gleamed like gold bullion. The screams of sugared-up six-year-olds drifted over the fence, sounding less like joy and more like a feral war cry. "Okay, Bill, remember the primary objective," she whispered. "In and out. No interaction with the targets." Bill tugged at his dinosaur costume, the plastic head slipping over his eyes. "They're children, Mol. We don't need Special Ops protocol," he grunted, fighting the fabric. "Just go distract the clown." "The clown is a wildcard," she hissed, slapping his tail down. "We need a diversion. What is in the bag?" "A borrowed puppy?" Bill offered, holding up a squirming duffel. Molly stared at him, the silence heavy between them. "You brought a live animal? Are you insane?" she asked. "Kids love puppies! It's the perfect distraction while we snag the loot," Bill argued. "We are stealing their presents, Bill. We don't bring gifts." "It's an exchange program. Look, I've got the skeleton key for the piñata," he said, producing a crowbar. "It's papier-mâché! You just hit it with a stick," Molly countered. "That's what they want you to think. It's definitely a biometric lock."