# The Birthday Caper Molly crouched behind the inflatable bounce house, her black turtleneck somehow making her look more ridiculous than professional. She'd chosen it from a spy movie marathon binge the night before. Bill emerged from behind a row of parked minivans, his fake mustache already peeling at one corner. "The presents are stacked by the garage," Molly whispered. "At least forty boxes." "Forty?" Bill's voice cracked with excitement. "That's more than we estimated." "I know. But here's the problem—the piñata's about to drop." Bill squinted at the scene before them. Seven-year-old Madison's birthday party was in full swing, with approximately thirty children running in chaotic circles while parents sat in lawn chairs completely oblivious to the criminal operation unfolding mere feet away. A father in cargo shorts was positioning a wooden piñata shaped like a unicorn. "When that piñata drops, all those kids are going to rush the present pile," Molly explained. "It's a stampede of primary colors and sugar. We'll never get through." "Can we go in from the house?" Bill suggested, adjusting his mustache again. It was now at a forty-five-degree angle, giving him the appearance of someone mid-stroke. "The side door's locked, and I'm not picking it with a princess face-paint station fifteen feet away. Too many witnesses, and someone will definitely ask us why we're not inside watching the entertainment." Bill scratched his head. "What if we create a distraction?" "Like what? We can't exactly start a fire at a children's party." "Why not?" Bill seemed genuinely puzzled by this limitation. "Because, Bill, that's where we draw the line. Theft is fine, arson is not." They watched as the piñata descended lower. The children began chanting. Molly could already hear the stampede beginning in her mind—the pounding of tiny sneakers, the shrieks of joy, the complete chaos that would occur in approximately ninety seconds. "The bouncy house," Bill suddenly said. "It's empty." Molly nodded slowly. "You're thinking what I'm thinking?" "We deflate it slightly, create a small sinkhole effect, maybe three kids tumble in, the parents panic, everyone's distracted, we grab the presents in the ensuing confusion." "That's insane," Molly said. "Got a better idea?" The piñata stick cracked. Wooden splinters flew. The children roared like tiny Vikings. "Do it," Molly commanded. Bill pulled a small valve tool from his pocket and scrambled toward the bounce house as the first wave of children rushed the present pile. Molly watched as the inflatable structure sighed and slowly collapsed. Three children tumbled into the sagging fabric with surprised squeals. Parents leaped from their lawn chairs. The chaos was perfect—absolutely, wonderfully perfect. They had exactly two minutes.