The balloons bobbed lazily above the backyard like overinflated sentinels, their pastel colors clashing with the grim determination in Molly’s eyes. She adjusted her glittery party hat—*disguise*, she called it—while Bill fiddled with the lock on the gate, his fingers slipping on the cheap plastic. “You’re taking too long,” Molly hissed, nudging him with her elbow. “We’ve got, like, twenty minutes before the piñata explodes and the kids start crying.” Bill wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of dirt on his forehead. “This lock’s got more security than Fort Knox. Who puts a *combination* lock on a kids’ party gate?” “Paranoid parents, that’s who. Now *focus*.” Molly crouched beside him, squinting at the numbers. “Try 6-9-6-9. That’s the birthday kid’s age, right?” “How should I know? I didn’t RSVP.” Bill twisted the dial, and the lock clicked open. “Ha! We’re in.” Molly clapped him on the back—maybe a little too hard. “Told you. Now remember, we grab the presents, we *do not* eat the cake, and under no circumstances do we engage with the clown.” Bill paled. “There’s a clown?” “Of course there’s a clown. It’s a *children’s party*.” She pushed the gate open just as a shriek of laughter erupted from the backyard. “Alright, let’s move. And Bill?” “Yeah?” “If you get caught, I *swear* I’m telling everyone you cried during *Toy Story 3*.” Bill groaned. “That was *one time*.”