The backroom of *The Jolly Jester*, a pub that smelled like stale beer and questionable life choices, was not the most glamorous place to plan a heist. But then again, neither was stealing from a kids’ birthday party. Molly adjusted the strap of her fanny pack—*discreetly* stuffed with lockpicks, a grappling hook, and three bags of gummy worms for "emergency morale"—and slid a napkin across the sticky table toward Bill. "Alright, genius," she said, tapping the napkin where she’d sketched a crude floor plan of *Bouncy Castle Paradise*, "walk me through this masterpiece of yours. Because last time you ‘planned’ something, we ended up in a dumpster behind a pet store with a parrot that wouldn’t stop yelling ‘THIEF.’" Bill, who was currently attempting to balance a toothpick on his nose, didn’t even flinch. "First of all, that parrot was a *witness*. Second, this is different. Kids’ parties are *chaos*. Absolute anarchy. Security’s gonna be so distracted by some snot-nosed brat crying over a missing juice box, they won’t even notice us waltzing out with a shopping cart full of LEGO sets." Molly squinted at the napkin. "You drew the piñata as a *trap*." "It *is* a trap," Bill said, finally letting the toothpick clatter to the table. "Think about it. You smack it, candy rains down, kids go feral. While they’re all scrambling for the last Fun Dip, we slip in, grab the good stuff, and bounce. It’s *beautiful*." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "Bill, the *presents* are under the table. The piñata’s in the corner. You’ve got the layout of a kindergarten class, not a heist." Bill waved a hand. "Details. We’ll improvise. You’re the one who said we needed a ‘low-risk, high-reward’ job. What’s lower risk than a room full of five-year-olds?" "A room full of *nuns*," Molly muttered. "At least nuns don’t have parents who’ll call the cops when they notice their kid’s iPad is missing." Bill leaned in, suddenly serious. "Look, the parents are the *real* security here. They’re all too busy taking videos for Instagram to notice anything. We go in as ‘party entertainers.’ You do your magic tricks—" "I *hate* magic tricks." "—I’ll be the ‘balloon animal guy.’" He mimed twisting a balloon into something that vaguely resembled a dog. "Distraction central. While the kids are screaming because my ‘giraffe’ looks like a deflated whoopee cushion, we lift the gifts, stash ‘em in the van, and boom. Easy money." Molly stared at him. "You want to *steal from children*." Bill gasped, clutching his chest. "Excuse you, we’re *redistributing wealth*. Those presents? Half of ‘em are gonna get lost in the back of a closet by Christmas. We’re giving them a *second life*." "A second life in *our* closet." "Exactly!" Bill grinned. "Think of it as… early holiday shopping. For us." Molly sighed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. "Fine. But if I see *one* tear, we abort. And if you try to pass off another one of your ‘balloon animals’ as a ‘swan,’ I’m throwing you into the bouncy castle myself." Bill pumped a fist. "That’s the spirit! Now, about the getaway—" The door to the backroom burst open, and the bartender, a grizzled man named Gary who had the energy of a disappointed grandfather, glared at them. "You two still here? I told you, no planning heists in my pub. Last time, the cops showed up, and I had to explain why there was a *flamingo* in the men’s room." Molly and Bill exchanged a look. Bill cleared his throat. "We were just… discussing *birthday party ideas*." Gary’s eye twitched. "Get out." As they slunk toward the exit, Molly muttered, "You owe me for this." Bill slung an arm around her shoulders. "Worth it. Also, I call dibs on the Nerf guns."