Molly crouched behind a bush, binoculars trained on the house. “You realize we’re robbing a bunch of toddlers, right?” Bill adjusted his ski mask. “It’s not stealing. It’s redistributing joy.” “From kids? At a clown-themed birthday?” “They’ve got piñatas, Molly. Piñatas full of loot. Plus, cake money. People *slip* cash into cards.” “You once cried at a puppy video.” “That was *art*, and this is capitalism.” “Half those presents are juice boxes and LEGO sets with one piece missing.” “Exactly! No one checks the serial numbers on mismatched LEGO.” “You brought a crowbar to a bounce house.” “It’s symbolic.” “The only thing you’ll be bouncing off is the neighbor’s trampoline after the cake lady tackles you.” “She’s frail. And emotional. Saw her tear up during ‘Happy Birthday.’ Weak spot.” “You’re saying we exploit geriatric sentimentality at a five-year-old’s party?” “Precisely. Distraction: you fake a faint when they bring out the dancing monkey.” “There’s a dancing monkey?” “Of course. It’s why we waited for naptime.” “Naptime? Bill, it’s 3 PM.” “Exactly. Peak toddler coma. We strike during the lullaby portion.” “And the monkey?” “Distracted by bananas. Probably.” “You’ve really thought this through.” “I’ve been studying party clowns. They’re disorganized. And tragic.” “Still feel weird stealing from kids?” “It’s research. For our origin story.” “You want to be the Bonnie and Clyde of birthday heists?” “No. We’ll be worse. We’ll take the cupcakes too.”