The backseat of Bill’s stolen ice cream truck smelled like expired waffle cones and regret, which was fitting because this entire heist was starting to feel like both. Molly adjusted the oversized clown nose she’d duct-taped to her face—because nothing said *inconspicuous* like a grown woman in a rainbow wig and suspiciously tight polka-dot pants—and glared at the crumpled invitation in her hand. “You *swear* this is the right address?” she hissed, poking Bill in the ribs with a glitter-covered finger. “Because if we roll up to some yuppie’s *actual* kid’s birthday and get tackled by a dad in a *‘World’s Okayest Golfer’* shirt, I’m blaming you.” Bill, currently wrestling with a deflated bouncy castle that had somehow gotten tangled around his ankles, didn’t look up. “Relax, Moll. The intel’s solid. Rich kid, trust fund baby, parents too busy yachting in the Bahamas to notice their little angel’s party got *liberated* by a couple of professionals.” He finally freed himself with a triumphant grunt and held up a crumpled map. “See? Right there. *‘The Sugarplum Palace.*’ Sounds like a place that’s *begging* to be robbed.” Molly snatched the map and squinted. “This looks like a napkin from a diner.” “It *is* a napkin from a diner. Where I *also* got the intel. The waitress’s cousin’s boyfriend’s sister’s kid goes here. Networking, Molly. It’s the backbone of modern crime.” She groaned and flopped back against the seat, which let out a sad *creak* under her weight. “We’re stealing from *children*, Bill. That’s a new low, even for us.” “First of all, we’re stealing from *parents*,” Bill corrected, wagging a finger. “The kids are just collateral damage. Like those little paper cups at a water cooler. You don’t *drink* the cups, you drink the *water*. The presents are the water.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard.” “Second of all,” Bill continued, undeterred, “these aren’t *normal* kids. These are *trust fund* kids. Their parents buy them *solid gold* LEGO sets and *limited-edition* stuffed animals that cost more than my first car. We’re not taking their *emotional* security blankets. We’re taking their *daddy’s* guilt money.” Molly sighed, then brightened. “Okay, but what if we *replace* the presents with *better* presents? Like, I dunno, *actual* gold bars or something? Then we’re not just thieves, we’re *upgraders*.” Bill blinked. “That’s… actually not a terrible idea. But where are we gonna get gold bars on short notice?” “Same place we got the clown nose. *The internet.*” “You can’t just *buy* gold bars on the internet.” Molly pulled out her phone and tapped furiously. “Watch me.” A pause. “…Okay, fine, you can’t. But we *can* get *fake* gold bars. The kids won’t know the difference until they’re, like, thirty.” Bill rubbed his temples. “We are *so* going to hell.” “Probably,” Molly agreed cheerfully. “But think of the *chaos*. Little Timmy opens his ‘present’ on his 30th birthday, all misty-eyed, and it’s just a *paint-filled* brick that says *‘CONGRATS, SUCKER’* in glitter.” Bill stared at her. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face. “…We should *also* put a note in there. Like, *‘From: The Tooth Fairy (She’s Real, Btw).’*” Molly gasped. “That’s *evil*. I love it.” Outside, the distant sound of a kazoo band tuning up drifted through the truck’s vents. Bill peeked out the window. “Showtime. You ready to be the *world’s most depressing* clown?” Molly adjusted her wig and flashed a grin so wide it looked painful. “Honey, I was *born* ready.” She kicked open the door, then paused. “Wait. How do we *get* the presents out without the kids noticing?” Bill patted the bouncy castle still draped over his shoulder. “Phase two of the plan, my dear. *Distraction.*” Molly groaned. “We’re using a *bouncy castle* as a getaway vehicle.” “Not just *any* bouncy castle,” Bill said, puffing out his chest. “A *stolen* bouncy castle.” Molly buried her face in her hands. “We are *never* getting out of this alive.”