Molly adjusted her fake mustache in the rearview mirror of their beat-up sedan. Through the windshield, colorful balloons bobbed outside the suburban house like tiny accomplices. "Remind me again why we're robbing six-year-olds?" Bill asked, tugging at his oversized bow tie. "We're not robbing children. We're liberating presents from their temporary guardians," Molly replied. "Big difference." "Right. And how exactly does this make us better than the Grinch?" "The Grinch targeted Christmas. This is just little Timmy Henderson's birthday party. Totally different holiday." Bill squinted at the invitation they'd intercepted from the mailman. "His name is Tyler." "Whatever. The point is, rich parents plus spoiled kid equals expensive loot. Have you seen the cars in this neighborhood?" "Yeah, but don't you think showing up as party entertainment is a bit obvious?" Molly straightened her red nose. "Bill, we're dressed as clowns. Nobody suspects clowns." "Everyone suspects clowns. That's literally their thing now." "You're overthinking this. We go in, perform some basic magic tricks, wait for cake time when all the adults are distracted, then grab the gift table and bolt." Bill practiced his juggling motion with invisible balls. "What if someone asks us to make balloon animals?" "I taught you balloon dogs last night." "Those looked like colorful intestines." "Kids love intestines. Very educational." Molly checked her watch. "Showtime. Remember, you're Bobo and I'm Giggles." "Why do I have to be Bobo?" "Because Giggles requires comedic timing, which you lack." Bill grabbed his oversized flower that squirted water. "For the record, I still think this is our dumbest plan yet." "Dumber than trying to rob that bank during the flash mob?" "At least banks have money. These presents could be anything. Art supplies, books, educational toys." "Or iPads, gaming systems, designer clothes. Rich people buy their kids rich people presents." They approached the front door as the sound of children's laughter echoed from the backyard. "What if they recognize us from our wanted posters?" Bill whispered. "They're six years old. They can barely recognize their own reflection." "I meant the parents." "The parents will be too busy trying to prevent sugar-induced chaos to look at us twice." Molly rang the doorbell. Footsteps approached from inside. "Last chance to abort," Bill muttered. "Relax, Bobo. What's the worst that could happen?" The door swung open to reveal a woman in a police uniform, her badge glinting in the afternoon sun. "Oh wonderful! The entertainment's here," Officer Henderson beamed. "I'm Tyler's mom. I just got off duty, so excuse the outfit. The kids are so excited to see you!" Bill's face went white beneath his greasepaint. Molly's smile stretched unnaturally wide. "Surprise," she squeaked.