The bakery van smelled like stale cupcakes and bad decisions, which, given the circumstances, was oddly appropriate. Molly adjusted the oversized clown nose she’d duct-taped to her face, wincing as it dug into her cheekbone. “You’re sure this is the right address?” she asked, peering through the windshield at the pastel-colored mansion looming ahead. “Because if we’re about to rob a *baby shower* instead of a kid’s party, I’m throwing you out of this van.” Bill, currently wrestling a deflated bouncy castle into the backseat, grunted. “It’s a *sixth birthday*, Molly. The kid’s old enough to appreciate a good heist. Probably. Also, I checked the invite—it’s got a *piñata* on it. Piñatas are for kids, not… whatever the hell a baby shower is.” “A baby shower is where grown-ups eat tiny sandwiches and pretend to like each other,” Molly said, snatching the invite from his hands. “And this *is* a baby shower. Look—‘Celebrating Little Timothy’s Arrival.’” She squinted. “Wait, no, that’s just a *T* with a smudge. Could be *Timothy*. Could be *Terrifying*. Could be *‘Turn Back Now, Fools.’*” Bill finally jammed the last corner of the bouncy castle into place and wiped his hands on his suspiciously clean overalls. “Relax. The kid’s name is *Chad*. Chad Whitmore the Third. His parents are loaded, his nanny’s got the day off, and his security system is a *chihuahua* named Mr. Wiggles. We’re in.” Molly side-eyed him. “You *talked* to the nanny?” “No, I *stole her phone* while she was getting a pedicure. She’s got a *very* judgmental Instagram feed. Also, she’s allergic to latex, which is *great* for us because—” “—because we’re wearing gloves,” Molly finished, holding up her bright yellow rubber gloves. “Which, by the way, make us look like we’re about to deep-clean a crime scene, not rob a six-year-old.” Bill grinned. “Exactly. No one suspects the help.” Molly groaned and reached for the door handle. “Alright, but if we get caught, I’m telling them you made me wear this nose.” The front gate was unlocked, which Bill took as a personal insult. “Amateurs,” he muttered, shouldering past a balloon arch that read *HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CHAD!* in glittery letters. The lawn was a minefield of tiny plastic toys and half-melted lollipops, and the distant sound of a kazoo orchestra suggested the party was in full swing. Molly crouched behind a garden gnome. “Okay, new plan. We go in, grab the presents, and get out before the *‘Happy Birthday’* sing-along. That’s when parents get *dangerous*.” Bill adjusted his fake mustache. “You worry too much. Parents at these things are *zombies*. They’ve had three glasses of wine and are one ‘Heads, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes’ away from a nervous breakdown.” A shriek cut through the air as a toddler in a dinosaur onesie barrelled past them, chased by a frazzled woman in a *World’s Okayest Mom* shirt. Molly ducked. “That’s our cue. Presents are *inside*. Probably in the *den of iniquity* they call the ‘playroom.’” Bill saluted. “Den of iniquity, coming right up.” They slipped through the patio doors just as the kazoo orchestra hit a particularly off-key high note. The playroom was a disaster—streamers, confetti, and enough wrapping paper to wallpaper a small apartment. And in the center of it all, a mountain of presents so tall it blocked out the sunlight. Molly whistled. “Jackpot.” Bill was already stuffing a *LEGO Death Star* into his fanny pack. “We’re gonna need a bigger van.” Molly grabbed a *My Little Pony* stable and paused. “Wait. Are we *monsters*?” Bill didn’t even look up. “Yes. But we’re *effective* monsters.” A shadow fell over them. Molly turned slowly to find a tiny, scowling child in a party hat, arms crossed. “That’s *my* LEGO,” Chad Whitmore the Third said, voice trembling with righteous fury. Bill froze, a *Nerf blaster* halfway into his pocket. Molly forced a laugh. “Uh. Surprise? We’re the *party clowns*?” Chad’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t look like clowns. You look like *burglars*.” Bill sighed. “Kid’s got a point.” Molly dropped to one knee, pulling a half-melted lollipop from her pocket. “How about a deal? You don’t tell your parents, and we… uh…” She glanced at Bill, who mouthed *bribe him*. “We give you *twenty percent* of the haul?” Chad considered this, then held out his hand. “Thirty. And the *Pokémon cards*.” Bill groaned. “We’re being *hustled* by a *six-year-old*.” Molly shook Chad’s hand. “Deal. But if you rat us out, we’re telling everyone you still believe in the *Tooth Fairy*.” Chad gasped. “I *do* believe in the Tooth Fairy!” Bill clapped him on the shoulder. “Good kid.”