The blueprints were spread across the diner table, a greasy patch of ketchup dangerously close to the designated “bouncy castle perimeter.” Molly tapped a neon-green fingernail against the schematic of a suburban two-story house. “Okay, Billy-boy, listen up. This isn't a bank vault. This is a six-year-old’s birthday party. The security is… different.” Bill peered over his coffee cup, his eyes weary. “Different how? Are the guard dogs going to be poodles? Do they have motion sensors that detect a lack of nap time?” “Worse,” Molly declared, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The parents are the muscle. They’re hopped up on cheap wine and the sheer will to create a ‘magical day.’ They see one unfamiliar adult, they swarm. They’ll ask you about your kid’s soccer team. They’ll try to show you pictures of their holiday in Cornwall. It’s a conversational death trap.” Bill shuddered. “Okay, okay, point taken. So how do we get past the parental blockade? I can’t small-talk my way out of a paper bag.” “You don’t have to,” Molly said, a wicked grin spreading across her face. She reached into her oversized handbag and pulled out two large, furry ears. “We go in as the entertainment.” Bill stared at the ears, then back at Molly. “You’re joking.” “Do I look like I’m joking? You’re Barnaby the Bear. I’ll be Penelope the Party Pixie. We’ll have a speaker blaring terrible pop music and a bag full of cheap magic tricks. We’re a distraction, a walking, talking, furry diversion.” “And the presents?” Bill asked, his professional curiosity piqued. “The schematic says they’re in the living room, right by the cake. That’s ground zero.” “Exactly. While you’re doing the ‘Barnaby Stomp’ with a horde of screaming children, I’ll be ‘magically’ making the presents disappear. One by one. Into the van.” “Into the van? How? They’re going to notice if Penelope the Pixie starts lugging a giant box marked ‘LEGO Fire Station’ out the back door.” “That’s why we have the piñata, Bill!” Molly said, gesturing to a drawing of a papier-mâché donkey. “We stuff it with the little presents. At the end of the party, we just have to ‘take the piñata away for disposal.’ No one questions a sanitation crew.” Bill leaned back, a slow smile finally breaking through his cynicism. “A piñata heist. You’re a genius, Molly.” “I know,” she replied, stuffing the ears back into her bag. “Now finish your coffee. We have a very loud, very furry appointment with a house full of presents. And try to look more enthusiastic. You’re supposed to love children.”