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 blueprints he’d “borrowed” from the city planning office—though “borrowed” was a generous term, given the duct tape still clinging to his sleeve. “Alright, genius,” Molly said, tossing a half-melted lollipop at his forehead. It stuck. “Walk me through this masterpiece of yours. Because last I checked, robbing a *kids’ party* wasn’t exactly the Ocean’s Eleven of crime.” Bill peeled the lollipop off his skin with a wet *schlick* and examined it like it held the secrets of the universe. “First of all, it’s *not* just a kids’ party. It’s the *Mayor’s Daughter’s Sixth Birthday Extravaganza*,” he said, as if that explained everything. “That place is gonna be dripping with presents. We’re talking iPads, LEGO sets the size of a Buick, maybe even one of those robot dogs that pees on command—” “—which is a fire hazard and a war crime,” Molly interrupted. “—and the best part?” Bill grinned, rolling out the blueprints with a flourish. “Security’s lighter than a balloon animal. No metal detectors, no guards, just a bunch of parents too busy pretending to like each other’s casseroles to notice two *highly skilled professionals* slipping in through the back.” Molly squinted at the blueprint, which looked like it had been drawn by a sleep-deprived squirrel. “This is a floor plan of a *bakery*.” “No, it’s the *community center*,” Bill said, tapping a smudged circle. “See? This is the ball pit. That’s where the presents are.” “That’s the *oven*.” “Details.” He waved a hand. “Point is, we go in during the piñata smash—chaos, distraction, *opportunity*—grab the loot, and bounce before anyone realizes Santa didn’t bring those gifts. He just *redistributed* them. To us.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “You do realize we’re not Robin Hood, right? We’re just two people who got kicked out of a *pet store* for trying to steal a hamster.” “That hamster had *potential*,” Bill muttered. “And this is different. This is *strategic*. We’re not just thieves, Molly. We’re *artists*.” “Artists who are about to get tackled by a room full of six-year-olds if we so much as *look* at their My Little Pony action figures.” Bill leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Then we don’t *look*. We *distract*. You ever seen a kid who’s had three cups of fruit punch? They’re *feral*. We set off a glitter bomb, scream ‘FREE CAKE!’, and while they’re all face-first in the frosting, we clean house.” Molly stared at him. Then at the blueprint. Then at the half-eaten lollipop still clinging to his hair. “You’re serious.” “Dead serious. Unless you’ve got a better plan?” She sighed, reaching for the blueprint. “Fine. But if I get pelted with a juice box, I’m throwing *you* into the ball pit.” Bill clapped his hands. “That’s the spirit! Now, about the getaway car—” “We’re not stealing a *clown car*.” “It’s *iconic*.” “It’s a *death trap*.” “Fine,” Bill grumbled. “But if we get caught, I’m telling them you were the mastermind.” Molly smirked, snatching the last lollipop from the table. “Oh, I *will* be. Because if this goes south, I’m blaming *you* and then I’m blaming *the glitter bomb*.”