The neon glow of a *Happy Birthday, Timmy!* banner flickered weakly in the damp evening air, casting long, wobbly shadows across the manicured lawn of the McAllister estate. Molly crouched behind a particularly aggressive garden gnome, her gloved fingers tracing the edge of a half-eaten cupcake she’d swiped from the trash earlier. "You ever notice how rich people’s garbage is just *fancier* than ours?" she whispered, licking frosting off her thumb. "Like, even their trash cans have monograms. Who monograms a *trash can*, Bill?" Bill, currently tangled in a hedge shaped like a unicorn, grunted as a branch snapped back and smacked him in the face. "I notice you’re eating evidence," he muttered, untangling himself with the dignity of a man who had not, in fact, just been assaulted by topiary. "And also that you’re *still* talking about the trash. We’re here for the *presents*, Molly. Focus." Molly tossed the cupcake wrapper into the bushes with a flourish. "I *am* focused. I’m just multitasking. Also, side note: if we get caught, we’re gonna look *real* suspicious covered in glitter and frosting." She gestured vaguely at her jacket, which was now dusted with enough edible sparkles to make a drag queen jealous. "We should’ve worn hazmat suits." Bill adjusted his ski mask—currently riding up his nose like a poorly fitted condom—and squinted at the house. "We’re not getting caught. The plan is *foolproof*." Molly snorted. "The plan is *‘distract the nanny with a fake fire drill, then waltz in like we own the place.’* That’s not foolproof, Bill, that’s *‘how to get tased by a six-year-old.’*" "Timmy’s six," Bill said, as if this were a relevant point. "Exactly! You ever seen a six-year-old with a nerf gun? They’ve got *aim*. And *enthusiasm*." Molly mimed firing an imaginary weapon, then ducked as a security light flickered on. "Also, since when do kids’ parties have *motion sensors*? This isn’t a heist, it’s a *minefield*." Bill sighed, the kind of sigh that said he was deeply regretting his life choices. "It’s not a minefield. It’s a *birthday party*. There’s cake. There’s a piñata. There’s—" "A *security system* that cost more than my rent," Molly interrupted. "And don’t even get me started on the *clown*. Who hires a clown for a heist, Bill? That’s just asking for trauma." "The clown’s not part of the security system," Bill said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced. Molly pointed at the inflatable bounce house currently deflating in the corner of the yard like a sad, pastel-colored lung. "That thing’s got *cameras*. I saw it. Little red dots, blinking at me like they *know* what we’re planning." Bill rubbed his temples. "You’re paranoid." "I’m *observant*!" Molly hissed. "Also, I *swear* that piñata’s judging me." Bill followed her gaze to the sad, lopsided donkey hanging from the tree, its papier-mâché ears drooping like it had given up on life. "That’s just a piñata." "That’s a *witness*, Bill." Molly reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of candy she’d "liberated" from the goody bags earlier. "We should’ve brought a bribe. Kids love gummy worms. We could’ve turned the whole party into our *accomplices*." Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. "We are *not* bribing six-year-olds with stolen candy to help us rob their friend’s birthday." "Why not?" Molly popped a gummy worm into her mouth. "Works on *me*." Bill opened his mouth to argue, but the distant wail of a fire alarm cut him off. They both froze. Then Molly grinned. "Oh, you *beautiful, reckless man*. You *actually* pulled the fire drill." Bill’s ski mask did little to hide his smugness. "Told you the plan was foolproof." Molly clapped him on the back as they crept toward the side door, now propped open by a very confused-looking nanny. "Alright, partner. Let’s go *birthday shopping*."