The backroom of *Sugarplum’s Sweet Shoppe* smelled like burnt caramel and regret, which, Molly decided, was just the right ambiance for planning a heist. She kicked her feet up on a wobbly card table, sending a stack of half-melted lollipops sliding into Bill’s lap. “Oi! Watch it, you great oaf,” Bill hissed, brushing sticky residue off his leather jacket. “These are *limited edition* lollipops. Collectors pay good money for these.” Molly snorted. “Since when do you care about collectibles? Last I checked, your idea of fine art was that ‘abstract’ finger-painting you did on the inside of a police cruiser.” “That was *performance art*,” Bill said, puffing out his chest. “And it *performed* me right out of a night in the slammer, didn’t it?” “Only because the cop thought it was a Rorschach test and needed therapy after seeing it.” Molly leaned forward, her grin sharp enough to cut glass. “Speaking of things that need therapy—you *sure* about this job? Stealing from a kids’ party? That’s a new low, even for us.” Bill waved a hand. “Oh, come off it. It’s not like we’re robbing *orphans*. This is some trust-fund brat’s sixth birthday. The presents in that piñata alone could fund a small yacht. Probably *two* yachts if we flip the My Little Pony collection on eBay.” Molly raised an eyebrow. “You know what My Little Pony is?” “Of course I do,” Bill scoffed. “I’m a *cultural omnivore*.” “You once tried to sell a toaster as ‘vintage industrial sculpture’ to a gallery owner.” “And it *almost* worked!” Bill jabbed a finger at her. “Besides, the real crime here is letting all that unopened LEGO and unread *Harry Potter* books go to waste. We’re *liberating* them. Like Robin Hood, but with better taste in footwear.” Molly sighed, rubbing her temples. “Alright, fine. But we’re not hurting any kids. If I see so much as a single tear, I’m out.” “Deal,” Bill said, already sketching a crude map on a napkin with a crayon he’d “borrowed” from the shop’s coloring station. “Here’s the play: We go in disguised as party entertainers. You’re the *Balloon Animal Lady*—” “Absolutely not.” “—and I’m the *Magician*.” Molly groaned. “You once tried to saw a woman in half and accidentally set her sleeve on fire.” “Details,” Bill said, waving it off. “The key is confidence. If you act like you belong, no one questions it. Especially not a room full of five-year-olds hopped up on sugar and the promise of a pony ride.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “And how, exactly, do we get out with the loot?” Bill grinned, pulling a deflated bouncy castle from behind the counter. “Phase two: *distraction*. We ‘accidentally’ pop this bad boy in the middle of the party. While the kids are screaming and the parents are having existential crises about their life choices, we load up the getaway van—” “Which is *where*, exactly?” “The ice cream truck parked out front,” Bill said, as if it were obvious. “I already hot-wired it. Smells like regret and sprinkles in there.” Molly stared at him. “You stole an *ice cream truck*.” “Borrowed,” Bill corrected. “With *intent to return*. Eventually.” Molly exhaled sharply, then grabbed the napkin map and crumpled it into a ball. “Alright, new plan. We go in *after* the party. When the parents are passed out from wine and the kids are in sugar comas. In and out, like ghosts. No bouncy castles, no magic tricks, and *definitely* no setting anything on fire.” Bill pouted. “You’re no fun.” “And you’re a menace,” Molly shot back. “But fine. We’ll do it your way—*mostly*. But if I see so much as a *single* spark, I’m tossing you into the piñata and letting the kids have at you.” Bill clapped his hands. “Now *that’s* the spirit! Operation: *Sticky Fingers* is a go!”