The van shuddered to a stop behind the Chuck E. Cheese’s dumpster, its headlights flickering out like a dying firefly. Inside, Molly adjusted her pink fairy wand and squinted at the birthday schedule taped to the windshield. “Are you *sure* it’s seven clowns and a petting zoo?” Bill asked, tugging at the too-tight bumblebee costume. “It’s two clowns, no petting zoo, and a guy on a unicycle who sings country music. But the presents are gold, Bill. Gold!” “What if a kid recognizes me?” “You’re literally covered in felt and shame. No one will know. Just grab the gift bags while I distract them with my interpretive dance to ‘Happy Birthday in D Minor.’” “You composed a *sad* version of ‘Happy Birthday’?” “It’s emotionally complex. Besides, you said you wanted realism.” “And you said this job was ‘low-risk’!” “Define ‘low-risk.’” “Not involving toddlers with laser pointers and a cake shaped like a volcano.” “That cake’s hollow. Perfect for smuggling.” Bill sighed. “I joined this life to escape responsibility, not to be attacked by a six-year-old with a piñata stick.” “Relax. If things go south, we blame the unicyclist.” “What if he’s innocent?” “Then he’s *really* bad at country music.” Molly opened the door. “Ready?” “Do I have a choice?” “Nope.”