Molly peered around the doorframe of the suburban living room. A rainbow of balloons bobbed above a cluster of sugar-crazed toddlers. Bill adjusted his black knit cap and frowned at a nearby table heaped with colorfully wrapped boxes. They both knew the drill: sneak in, grab the loot, sneak out. “Are you sure the host lock is that flimsy?” asked Molly, voice low. “Flimsy? It’s practically a wet paper towel,” replied Bill, tapping the lock with a slim jim. “Ten seconds and we’re golden.” Molly rolled her eyes. “I still feel weird stealing from screaming children.” “I’m not stealing from them,” Bill insisted. “Think of it as redistributing the wealth. Besides, I only take the presents that look valuable.” Molly peeked through a gap in the curtains. “The birthday song just started.” “Perfect timing,” said Bill. “Now, while everyone’s distracted by a grass-stained rendition of ‘Happy Birthday,’ we swoop.” “And what if the birthday girl spots us?” Molly said, adjusting her gloves. Bill peeked over. “She can see a ghost and still cry inconsolably. Trust me, she’s not noticing us.” Molly pressed a finger to her lips. “Right. Assemble the party hats.” Bill pulled two gaudy cone hats from his bag like rabbits from a hat. “See? Nothing says ‘invisible thief’ like primary colors and cartoon ponies.” “Brilliant disguise,” Molly nodded, popping her hat into place. “So what’s Plan B if Big Bob the Clown starts recognizing two masked intruders rifling through his cotton candy empire?” Bill grinned. “Clowns are bound by the sacred clown code. No interference with other performers’ business. I also brought this rubber chicken. It’s Streit’s famous distraction chicken.” Molly sighed. “I hate you sometimes.” She placed a gloved hand on Bill’s arm. “But this is a good plan.” Bill winked. “Our future self in a golden retirement castle will thank us. Keep your eye on the prize—one hundred small boxes of surprise toys. We’ll be legends.” “Legends in juvenile hall,” Molly muttered. “Shh!” Bill motioned. “Operation Piñata Infiltration is a go.” They crept forward. Molly clutched a pillowcase, Bill held a miniature crowbar disguised as a stick. The party guests—two dozen sugar-high munchkins—were singing loudly enough to drown out a jet engine. Molly whispered, “Pillows in position?” “Check,” Bill smirked. “Time to pounce.” With synchronized precision, they dove onto the table and began shoveling gifts into the pillowcase. One child pointed. “Mommy! The unicorn present is moving!” Molly froze, gift halfway to the bag. Bill hissed, “Smooth. Distract with poultry.” He brandished the rubber chicken like a baton. “Behold! The Wacky Chicken of Calamity!” The children scattered. Some giggled; others howled. In the chaos, Bill knocked over the beverage table. Cups tumbled like dominoes. Molly scooped the last gift. “Almost done! Did you get the manicure kit and that giant stuffed llama?” Bill rummaged, producing a glittery unicorn-horn squeegee. “Close enough. Llama came with extra googly eyes.” A tiny hand latched onto Molly’s pant leg. A toddler with frosting smeared across his face stared up. Molly swallowed. “Now would be a fabulous time for Plan B.” Bill threw the rubber chicken over his shoulder. “Run!” They burst through the door, squealing toddlers and spilled punch at their heels. Molly laughed wildly as they skidded across the lawn. “That was insane!” Bill patted the bag. “Did you get the remote control dinosaur?” Molly held up a glittery box. “Twice. And a singing teddy bear.” Bill nodded. “Perfect haul.” Molly grinned. “To infinity and juvenile detention.” Bill saluted. “Next stop, bail money.”