Under the glow of faded streetlights, Molly crouched beside the rusted chain-link fence that guarded the suburban backyard party. Balloons bobbed lazily just out of reach while laughter trickled through the wooden slats. She wiped dust from a promise notebook and squinted at a crudely drawn floor plan. Nearby, Bill jiggled a skeleton key that he claimed was cursed by his ex and thoroughly unhelpful in ghost stories. They shared a conspiratorial grin as the faint smell of frosting drifted up to them. Molly whispered, "We grab all the gifts before the cake is cut." Bill ducked. He tapped the fence. "Make sure to dodge the pinata and avoid tiny detectives." The pair slipped through a gap where the lock looked pliable. Inside, a conga line of sugar rush bliss created perfect chaos. Tables glittered with ribbons, and squealing toddlers in capes gave Molly pause as they swooped past. Bill adjusted his black gloves and nodded toward a towering pile of wrapped boxes. For a moment, they hesitated at the absurdity of robbing a unicorn dress and a wooden train. Then they melted into the revelry like shadows on confetti, ready to vanish with their loot and imaginary unicorn bouncers.