The backroom of *Jolly’s Jamboree*, a children’s party supply store, smelled like stale cotton candy and regret. Molly perched on a wobbly stool, flipping through a catalog of *Deluxe Pirate Treasure Chests* while Bill paced in front of a wall of inflatable unicorns, muttering to himself. “Alright, let’s run this by me one more time,” Bill said, stopping abruptly. “We’re breaking into a *kids’ birthday party*.” Molly didn’t look up. “Not breaking in. *Crashing*. There’s a difference.” “Oh, sure, because ‘crashing’ sounds way more legal when the cops show up.” She finally glanced at him, deadpan. “The cops aren’t showing up. It’s a *children’s party*. The worst that happens is some mom with a glittery fanny pack tries to karate-chop us.” Bill rubbed his temples. “Molly, we’re stealing presents from *children*. That’s not just a crime, that’s a *moral crime*. It’s like robbing a hospital, but with more juice boxes.” “First of all, we’re not stealing *all* the presents. Just the good ones.” She tapped the catalog. “The ones with the *real* loot—iPads, gift cards, maybe a LEGO set that hasn’t been stepped on yet. The kids’ll get over it. They’ll think Santa came early and got *real* greedy.” Bill groaned. “Santa doesn’t *steal*. He *delivers*. That’s the whole schtick.” “Then he’s doing it wrong.” Molly tossed the catalog onto a pile of deflated bouncy castles. “Look, the party’s at the *Grand Ballroom of the Silver Spoon Country Club*. That place is *loaded*. The parents’ll have their wallets out for the *‘Donation to the Birthday Child’s College Fund’* scam, and half of them will be too drunk on overpriced champagne to notice us slipping out with a duffel bag full of iPads.” Bill crossed his arms. “And how, exactly, do we *not* look like two suspicious adults at a kids’ party?” Molly grinned. “Easy. We blend in.” “How?” “We dress like *parents*.” Bill blinked. “You want us to *pretend to be parents*?” “Not just any parents. *Cool* parents.” She pulled out a shopping list. “You’re ‘Dave,’ the *‘chill dad’* who does stand-up comedy on the weekends and lets his kid stay up past midnight. I’m ‘Lisa,’ the *‘aesthetic mom’* who bakes gluten-free cupcakes and has a podcast about *‘mindful parenting.’* We’ll be *so* relatable, the other parents will *beg* us to steal their kids’ presents just to get them out of the house.” Bill stared at her. “You’ve thought about this *way* too hard.” “Thank you.” Molly pulled out a clipboard. “Now, logistics. The party starts at 3 PM. We arrive at 3:15—late enough to avoid the *‘meet the other parents’* small talk, early enough to snag the goodie bags before the sugar crash hits. We’ll each take a side of the room. You hit the gift table, I’ll work the *‘present opening station.’* If a kid starts crying, we distract them with a balloon animal.” “You don’t know how to make balloon animals.” “I’ll *improvise*.” She mimed twisting a balloon into what might’ve been a dog or a very sad snake. “See? *Art*.” Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “And what if someone recognizes us?” Molly waved a hand. “Please. The last time we pulled a job, we were dressed as *plumbers*. No one remembers faces, Bill. They remember *vibes*. And our vibe is *‘totally normal, definitely not criminals.’*” “Our vibe is *‘two people who definitely robbed a children’s party.’*” “Only if we *get caught*.” Molly leaned in. “Think about it. We walk in, we schmooze, we *liberate* some high-end tech, and we’re out before the *‘Happy Birthday’* song even finishes. Easy money.” Bill sighed, defeated. “Fine. But if I have to explain to a five-year-old why ‘Uncle Dave’ can’t take his *fifth* iPad, I’m blaming you.” Molly clapped her hands. “That’s the spirit! Now, let’s go shopping. We need *very* convincing ‘cool parent’ outfits.” Bill followed her toward the door, already regretting his life choices. “I hate everything.”