The backroom of *The Rusty Nail* smelled like stale beer and regret, which, Molly figured, was just the kind of ambiance you needed when planning a heist. She leaned back in her chair, boots propped on the wobbly table, and tossed a half-eaten bag of gummy worms at Bill. He caught it one-handed, squinting at her like she’d just suggested they rob a bank with a banana. “You’re telling me,” Bill said, voice dripping with the kind of skepticism usually reserved for timeshares and pyramid schemes, “that our big score is a *kids’ birthday party*?” Molly grinned. “Not just any kids’ party, Bill. *The* kids’ party. Little Timmy Whitmore’s eighth birthday. His dad’s a tech mogul, his mom’s a former child star turned lifestyle guru, and their house is basically a fortress of overpriced toys and unsupervised wealth.” Bill popped a gummy worm in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, then pointed the half-eaten worm at her. “You realize we’re not exactly the *Ocean’s Eleven* type, right? Last time we tried a heist, you set off the fire alarm by microwaving a burrito for too long.” “That was *one time*,” Molly said, waving a hand. “And in my defense, the burrito was *suspicious*. Besides, this is different. No alarms, no guards—just a bunch of sugar-high eight-year-olds and their clueless parents. We waltz in, grab the presents, waltz out. Easy.” Bill rubbed his temples. “Molly, we don’t even *like* kids.” “Exactly! Which means we won’t get distracted by the face-painting or the piñata or whatever fresh hell they’ve got set up in there. We’re professionals. We go in, we take the loot, we vanish like mist.” “Like *mist*?” “Yeah. Like *mist*.” Bill sighed, long and dramatic, like a man who’d just been told his favorite pub was closing to become a smoothie bar. “And how, pray tell, do we even *get in*? It’s not like we can just stroll up to the front door and say, ‘Hey, we’re the entertainment!’” Molly leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “We *are* the entertainment.” Bill blinked. “Come again?” “We’re the *magicians*.” She pulled a crumpled flyer from her pocket and slapped it on the table. It read: *“Amazing Molly & Fabulous Bill’s Spectacular Kids’ Show! (Now with 20% More Wonder!)*” Bill stared at it. Then at her. Then back at the flyer. “You *made this*.” “Last night. Took me, like, twenty minutes. I used a Crayola marker for authenticity.” “Molly, this is a *disaster* waiting to happen.” “No, it’s *genius*. Kids love magic. Parents *love* magic because it buys them twenty minutes of peace. We go in, do a few tricks—” “What tricks?” “Oh, you know. Pull a rabbit out of a hat, saw a kid in half—” “*What?*” “Kidding! Mostly. We’ll do the classic ‘pick a card, any card’ bit, maybe a little sleight of hand with some of the smaller presents. Then, when everyone’s distracted by the cake, we make our move.” Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “And what, exactly, is *our move*?” Molly grinned. “We ‘accidentally’ knock over the present table. In the chaos, we stuff as many gifts as we can into our *very* discreetly hidden duffel bags. Then we ‘leave early’ because, oh no, *stage fright*.” Bill opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You want to *steal presents from children*.” “Not *all* of them. Just the good ones. The ones with, like, action figures and video games and stuff. We’ll leave the socks and the board books. We’re not *monsters*.” Bill groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” “No, the worst idea was when you tried to rob a casino by disguising yourself as a slot machine.” “That *almost* worked!” “You got stuck in the elevator.” “Semantics.” Molly stood up, clapping her hands. “Come on, Bill. Where’s your sense of adventure? Your *joie de vivre*? Your *desire not to live in a van down by the river*?” Bill sighed, defeated. “Fine. But if we get caught, I’m telling them you forced me at gunpoint.” Molly patted his shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Now, let’s go practice our *magic act*.” She pulled a deck of cards from her pocket and fanned them out with a flourish. “Pick a card, Bill. Any card.”