“What’s the strategy, Bill? We don’t look like magicians, rabbits, or clowns, so unless you’re hiding a red nose in your trench coat—” “I told you, Molly, party entertainment’s booked solid. The best we can do is, ‘surprise guest appearance of your distant, moderately likable aunt and her weird boyfriend.’ Works. At least my boyfriend act is ace.” “You? Even pretending to date me, you’d trip over your lines. But fine. Auntie and boyfriend. Got the wigs?” “I got wigs, big sunglasses, and a badge that says ‘World’s Okayest Relative.’ Plus, an ‘I Heart Cake’ button. Commitment to the role.” “Well, hearts and buttons don’t break into gift tables. Or keep eight-year-olds from stomping your feet.” “That’s why we don’t rush. We mingle—ingratiate, compliment the cake, endure a round of musical chairs, you know.” “You can’t sit still for twelve seconds. And you hate children. If any so much as sneezes on you, you’ll faint.” “I’ll wear closed shoes. And the hat. That’ll keep my dignity.” “Is that the Peppa Pig one or the one that says ‘Over the Hill’?” “The latter. Children like irony. And I, personally, enjoy a hat with gravitas.” “I don’t think they’ll notice your gravitas when you’re hauling a sack of presents out the door.” “Molly, that’s your department. While you’re chatting up the other ‘aunties,’ I’ll sneak over to the gift table, do some sleight of hand.” “Sleight of hand? Bill, unless by ‘sleight’ you mean ‘drop the sack, knock over the punch, and run screaming,’ because that’s your usual MO.” “I’ve practiced. I watched three videos online. One said it was easy to disappear in confetti clouds.” “And where, pray tell, are you getting the confetti clouds?” “That’s what the piñata’s for. We time it perfectly, the smashing, the confetti, the sugar high, the chaos. Presents—pow!—in the bag, out the window.” “I see one flaw. Two, if we count the little girl who guards her presents like a dragon.” “I have a solution. I distract her with a harmonica recital. Kids love music.” “You can’t play harmonica.” “She doesn’t know that. She’s eight! I’ll tell her it’s European jazz.” “This is doomed.” “We’ve done worse.” “Not at the mercy of a cake-fuelled mob of first graders. Or helium. I still think we use the balloons—put presents inside, float them out the door.” “Molly, the law of physics—” “Don’t argue science with me. Fine. You distract, I do a sweep, we converge at the gift table, I create a diversion—maybe ask to take a family photo. While everyone says cheese, you grab the loot.” “Simple, classic, not reliant on harmonica. That’s why you’re the brains.” “Because you’re barely the fingers.” “Ouch. Just for that, you’re wearing the ‘World’s Okayest Relative’ badge.” “Fine. But next time, we knock over a grownup’s party. Or at least one with less glitter.” “Deal. Now, pass me the auntie wig. And Bill—try to look, you know, innocent.” “I invented innocent. Just not the kind that stands trial.” “No more jokes. Let’s go, before someone else pinches the cake.” “If anyone gets the cake, it’s me.” “That’s the spirit. Now hurry up, boyfriend. We’ve got presents to lift and dignity to lose.”