"Bill, I'm telling you, this is our golden ticket," Molly whispered, crouched behind a minivan decorated with rainbow balloons. "A six-year-old's birthday party? Really? This is what we've come to?" Bill adjusted his fake mustache nervously. "Think about it! Modern parents go overboard. We're talking iPads, gaming systems, designer clothes. Little Timmy's probably getting more tech than Best Buy." "His name's actually Sebastian," Bill said, consulting a crumpled invitation. "And how do you even know about this party?" "I have my sources. Plus, look at this house! These people wipe their noses with hundred-dollar bills." Bill peered over the van. A massive Tudor mansion sprawled before them, its manicured lawn dotted with bouncy castles and a petting zoo. "Okay, but how do we blend in? We're thirty-something adults at a children's party." "That's where these come in." Molly pulled out two colorful party hats and a gift bag. "We're the eccentric aunt and uncle from out of town." "I don't do children, Molly. They're unpredictable. Last heist involving kids, I ended up in a sandbox eating dirt." "That was different. This time we have a plan." "What plan? Walk in, grab presents, walk out?" "Exactly! Simple plans are foolproof plans." "Simple plans are how people end up in jail!" "Bill, relax. We wait for cake time, everyone gathers inside, we slip around back to the present table, fill our bag, and disappear." "What if someone asks who we are?" "You're Uncle Mortimer, I'm Aunt Petunia. We're Sebastian's father's college roommate's distant relatives." "That's oddly specific." "Specific is believable." Bill sighed. "And if a kid talks to us?" "Smile and nod. Kids love that." "What if they want us to join their games?" "We're too old. Bad backs." "What if the parents want to chat?" "We're shy. Social anxiety." "What if—" "Bill! Stop catastrophizing. Look, there's the birthday boy now." A small child in a superhero cape zoomed past, followed by a dozen screaming kids chasing bubbles. "He's so... little," Bill said, his voice softening. "Remember when we were that age? All we wanted was a bicycle or a teddy bear?" "Don't go soft on me now. These are rich kids. They probably have golden teddy bears." "Still, stealing from children feels wrong." "We're stealing from their parents. The kids will just think someone mixed up the gift bags." Bill straightened his tie. "Alright, but if this goes sideways and I end up having to sing 'Happy Birthday,' I'm blaming you." "Deal. Now put on your party hat, Uncle Mortimer. It's showtime." They stood up, brushed grass off their knees, and walked toward the party, their gift bag swinging innocently between them.