The alley behind Chuckles the Clown’s Party Palace reeked of burnt popcorn and existential despair. Molly crouched behind a dumpster labeled “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TYRONE!!! (We tried!)” and scribbled furiously in a spiral notebook that had once belonged to a seventh-grade math student named Kevin. Bill, meanwhile, was attempting to camouflage himself with a My Little Pony windbreaker and a party hat shaped like a frolicking donkey. “Are you sure this is inconspicuous?” he whispered, tugging the brim of his hat so low it covered one eye. Molly didn’t look up. “You’re supposed to blend in with the chaos, not pass a beauty pageant.” “I look like I cry during *Blue’s Clues*.” “That’s the point. You’re emotionally fragile and covered in glitter. You’re one of them.” Bill sighed and stuffed a squeaky chicken into his pocket. “What’s step two of the plan again? After I distract them with interpretive balloon animal art.” “You don’t know balloon animals.” “I know a dog. And a suspiciously phallic dolphin.” “Stick to the script. You perform the art. I slip in through the ball pit tunnel entrance. I disable the piñata alarm—” “There’s an alarm on the piñata?” “It’s motion-activated. Laser grid. Also, the clown is wired to a silent alarm in his nose.” Bill gaped. “That’s inhumane.” “He’s an actor, Bill. Probably owes child support.” Molly finally snapped her notebook shut and studied the party through a pair of binoculars made from two Pringles cans and duct tape. Inside, a dozen kids under seven were screaming while a disco ball spun mournfully above a cake shaped like a T-Rex riding a unicycle. “We go at 4:13,” Molly said. “Why 4:13?” “Because that’s when they do the ‘Musical Chairs Massacre.’ It’s peak chaos. Tears, flying limbs, one child always goes into the fetal position by the snack table.” Bill frowned. “You’ve been scoping this place for a while, haven’t you?” “I did recon for three parties. Pretended to be Brenda, the napkin folding consultant.” “And?” “The napkin swans are a distraction. The real treasure is the gift table. Wrapping paper fortress, guarded by a mom in yoga pants who drinks boxed wine from a travel mug.” Bill checked his watch. “So we’re stealing presents from children.” “They’ll get more. This is capitalism’s cradle. Besides, most of these are duplicates. Three Lego sets, seven ukuleles, one gift receipt for a butt cream.” “A what?” “Unopened. From Grandma Doris. Probably a mistake.” Bill paused. “Still feels low. Stealing from a kid named ‘Tyrone who tried.’” “We’re not monsters. We leave a note. With interest.” “You’re putting *interest* on stolen birthday presents?” “Five percent, compounded annually. Payable when they turn eighteen. Builds character.” Bill stared at the party, where a child had just set a paper lantern on fire with a glow stick. “You know, we could just get real jobs.” Molly shot him a look. “And give up glamour, intrigue, and the thrill of escaping through a ball pit while covered in pudding? Never.” She handed him a walkie-talkie shaped like a rubber ducky. “You good?” Bill took a deep breath. “I was in a heist once where we stole a diamond from a museum. This feels riskier.” “Because it is. Kids have no moral code. Also, they bite.” They bumped fists. Molly slithered toward the ball pit entrance like a jewel thief raised by otters. Bill adjusted his donkey hat, pulled out a half-inflated balloon shaped like a question mark, and stepped into the party with the smile of a man who would later deeply regret his life choices.