Molly adjusted her glittery party hat and leaned against the bakery’s display case, eyeing the "Happy 7th Birthday, Timmy!" banner across the street. "Alright, Bill, we’ve got a problem. The kid’s parents hired a *clown*." Bill didn’t look up from his half-eaten cupcake. "So? Clowns are just sad people in rubber noses. We’ve handled worse." "Yeah, but this one’s got a *whistle*." Molly mimed blowing one, then winced. "And a *squirt flower*. You ever been hit in the eye with a squirt flower, Bill? It’s like getting pepper-sprayed by a toddler." Bill licked frosting off his thumb. "Then we avoid the clown. Simple. We go in through the kitchen—distraction at the piñata, grab the presents, out the back. Classic misdirection." Molly groaned. "The presents are under the *piñata*, genius. You think the parents just left a pile of iPads and Lego sets unguarded while some kid beats a donkey with a stick?" Bill shrugged. "So we beat the donkey *faster*." "A donkey made of *cardboard*, Bill. It’s not a race." "Everything’s a race when there’s loot involved." He tossed the cupcake wrapper into a trash can and missed. "Look, we’ve got two options: either we brazen it out like we belong there, or we cause a diversion so big the cops show up *after* we’re gone." Molly sighed. "You’re suggesting we *what*, set the cake on fire?" Bill grinned. "I was thinking we ‘accidentally’ let the balloon animals loose. But fire works too." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "We are *never* getting invited to another heist after this."