The backroom of *Sugarplum’s Sweet Shoppe* smelled like stale cotton candy and regret, which, Molly decided, was just the right ambiance for planning a heist. She kicked her boots up onto the wobbly card table, sending a stack of napkins fluttered to the floor. Bill didn’t even glance up from the blueprint he’d stolen—*borrowed*, he insisted—from the party planner’s office. “Alright, genius,” Molly said, tossing a gummy worm at his forehead. “Walk me through this masterpiece of yours. Because last time you ‘planned’ something, we ended up in a bouncy castle with a very angry clown.” Bill caught the gummy worm mid-air and popped it into his mouth. “First of all, that clown had it coming. Second, this is different. We’re not dealing with a carnival sideshow here. We’re dealing with *kids*.” “Oh, great,” Molly groaned. “My least favorite kind of criminal. Tiny, unpredictable, and they scream when you look at them wrong.” “Exactly!” Bill grinned, tapping the blueprint. “Which is why we’re hitting the *Piñata Palace* during the height of the sugar rush. Those little monsters will be too busy face-planting into cupcakes to notice us swiping their loot.” Molly leaned in, squinting at the scribbled layout. “So what’s the play? We waltz in dressed as balloon animals?” “Better.” Bill reached into his jacket and pulled out two neon-green polo shirts with *Piñata Palace Staff* embroidered in glittery thread. “We’re the new ‘entertainment.’” Molly held up the shirt like it was a dead fish. “You want me to wear *this*?” “It’s either this or the clown nose again.” She sighed, shoving the shirt back at him. “Fine. But if I have to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to a room full of gremlins, I’m billing you for therapy.” Bill ignored her, unfolding a second sheet of paper—a guest list. “Now, the real score isn’t the toys. It’s the *parents*. These people spend more on a five-year-old’s birthday than we make in a month. We’re talking iPads, LEGO sets the size of a small car, and—” he paused for dramatic effect, “—a *limited-edition, signed, first-printing* *Unicorn Princess action figure*.” Molly’s eyebrow twitched. “You’re telling me some kid’s getting a *toy* that’s worth more than my car?” “Exactly. And it’s going in the *piñata*.” She blinked. “You want to steal a piñata.” “No, I want to *replace* the piñata.” Bill pulled a identical-looking piñata from under the table—except this one had been hollowed out and lined with velvet. “We swap it before the smashing begins. The kids get their fun, the parents get their receipts, and we walk out with enough loot to retire.” Molly crossed her arms. “And how do we explain the fact that the piñata’s suddenly *heavier*?” “Easy.” Bill grinned. “We tell them it’s *magic*.” She stared at him. Then she burst out laughing. “Oh, you beautiful idiot. That’s actually genius.” “Thank you.” “No, I mean—it’s *stupid* genius. The kind that only works because no one expects thieves to be this dumb.” Bill shrugged. “Works every time.” Molly grabbed the polo shirt and yanked it over her head, immediately regretting it as the fabric clung to her like a second skin. “Alright, but if I have to wear this, you’re carrying the getaway bag. And if a single kid asks me to do a handstand, I’m throwing you into the balloon pit.” Bill saluted. “Deal. Now let’s go rob some toddlers.”