Molly and Bill sat hunched over a sticky table in the corner of a dimly lit cafe, a crumpled blueprint of "Happy Times Party Hall" spread between them. Bill sipped his fifth cup of lukewarm coffee, his eyes darting about nervously – as if the sway of the ceiling fan threatened to spill their secrets. “Okay, so, phase one: we slip in dressed as clowns. Everyone loves clowns,” Molly declared, tracing a line on the blueprint with a chipped red nail. Bill choked on his coffee. “Clowns? Why not something less… horrifying?” “You got a better idea?” “We could be balloon artists—less makeup.” Molly considered it for a moment. “Fine, balloon artists. Phase two: we infiltrate the party.” Bill leaned in closer, the scent of old coffee on his breath mingling with the vague aroma of fried eggs from the kitchen. “And phase three, we snag the goodies while they're busy popping the confetti.” “Exactly.” Molly tapped the blueprint emphatically. “You distract them with your—uh, balloon twisting talents. I’ll handle the heist part.” Bill frowned. “Why do I have to be the distraction?” “Because, my dear William, you have the charming face of a man who could sell ketchup popsicles to a lady in white gloves.” Bill didn’t look convinced, but he shrugged and went along with it. “Alright,” Molly continued, “final phase: we exit during the cake cutting. Chaos, kids, sugar rush—it’s our smoke screen.” “Genius, Molly. Really, pure genius,” Bill said, though his sarcasm hung thick in the air like the cafe’s stale muffin scent. Molly ignored him, her mind racing with visions of their getaway. “One last thing, we need a code word. Something that means ‘abort mission.’” “How about ‘sprinkles’?” Bill offered, almost too enthusiastically. “Sprinks?” Molly raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” Bill nodded. “Yep. If anything goes sideways, just yell ‘sprinkles’ and we bail.” With their plan set, they shook hands, the slap of their palms sealing their fates as the soon-to-be most notorious party thieves in suburbia. “Remember, Bill, this is our ticket to the big leagues of under-the-table small-stakes crime. We mess this up, it’s back to stealing pies from windowsills.” Bill stood, stretching his legs which were sticky from the booth. “No more pies, Molly. This time tomorrow, we’ll be legends.” As they exited the cafe, stepping out into the brisk afternoon air, Molly felt a twinge of excitement—or was it the four cups of coffee?—bubble in her chest. This heist would be one for the books, she was sure of it. After all, how hard could it be to steal a few birthday presents from a room full of sugar-crazed six-year-olds?