The balloons bobbed lazily above the backyard like overinflated sentinels, their pastel colors clashing with the grim determination in Molly’s eyes. She adjusted her glittery party hat—*disguise*, she called it—while Bill fiddled with the lock on the gate, his fingers slipping on the cheap plastic. “You’re taking too long,” Molly hissed, nudging him with her elbow. “We’ve got, like, twenty minutes before the piñata explodes and the kids start crying. That’s our window.” Bill wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “This lock’s got more security than Fort Knox. Who puts a *combination* lock on a kids’ party gate?” “Paranoid parents, that’s who. Now *focus*.” Molly crouched beside him, her sequined dress riding up. “Try 6-9-6-9. That’s the birthday kid’s age—twice.” The lock clicked. Bill grinned. “You’re a genius.” “No, I’m a thief with a *heart*.” She shoved the gate open just as a shriek of laughter erupted from inside. “Alright, here’s the plan: I’ll distract the adults with my *charming* small talk, you grab the presents under the table. And *do not* eat any of the cupcakes. Last time you did that, you turned into a sugar-coma zombie.” Bill saluted. “No cupcakes. Got it.” He paused. “What if there’s a clown?” Molly’s eye twitched. “Then we *improvise*.”