Molly leaned over the birthday party invitation like it was the Mona Lisa, squinting at the glitter glue. “So, let me get this straight. Jimmy’s sixth birthday. Bounce house, clown, face painting, and… wait for it—three piñatas?” Bill slurped his gas station coffee. “Three? That’s overkill. One piñata, two max. Who are they trying to impress, the United Nations?” “They’re aiming for excess, Bill. And excess is our in.” “Right. Because nothing says ‘open safecracking opportunities’ like a toddler with cake smudged on his forehead.” “They’ve got presents, Bill. Piles. Wrapping paper practically screaming our names.” “Yeah, but we’re talking about *kids*, Molly. We’re professionals. This is borderline unethical.” Molly shot him a look. “Unethical? You stole a diamond from a senator’s toupee and called it ‘tax evasion recovery.’ Now you’re drawing lines at party favors?” “That was different. That was politics.” “This is economics. Supply and demand. Those toys are underappreciated, probably mostly books and socks. We’re redistributing joy.” “By stealing it?” “By upgrading its environment. Think of us as… cultural curators.” Bill scratched his neck. “So what’s the plan? Crawl through the doggy door during the magic show?” “Better. We go in as entertainers.” He choked on his coffee. “We’re clowns?” “No. I said *entertainers*. I’m doing face painting. You’re the balloon animal guy.” “I can’t make balloon animals.” “You can learn. It’s twisting and hope.” “And if someone asks for a giraffe?” “Give them a dog. Claim it’s modern art.” Bill stared into the middle distance. “I still don’t like it. Kids cry when their ponies look like depressed armadillos.” Molly tapped the invitation. “Look—party starts at 2 p.m. Peak chaos is between cake and piñata. That’s our window. You distract with subpar balloon art, I disable the adult supervision with glitter-based charm, and we clear the gift pile.” “Disable how? Glitter isn’t a martial art.” “No, but it *is* a biohazard. One shimmer and parents are on cleanup duty for weeks. Psychological warfare.” “What if the clown’s still there?” “Then you challenge him to a balloon-off. High-stakes, winner takes all. Literally.” Bill sighed. “We’re really doing this? We’re stealing Transformers from kindergartners?” “They won’t miss one. Or five. Kids get, like, seventeen of everything. It’s capitalism with cupcakes.” “What if we get caught? ‘Sorry, Officer, we were equalizing toy distribution’?” Molly grinned. “We plead clown immunity. Everyone knows clowns operate under international jest law.” “There’s no such thing.” “Exactly. That’s why it’s foolproof.” A beat. Bill slurped the last of his coffee, grimacing. “Fine. But I’m not wearing red shoes.” “You’ll wear what the role demands.” “No red shoes.” “We’ll discuss it in the getaway wagon.” “It's a van, Molly.” “Details, Bill. Focus on the mission. By 3:15, we’ll be rich, and Jimmy can learn the valuable life lesson that nothing is forever.” “Except trauma.” “Oh, stop being such a party pooper. Speaking of—how’s your kazoo playing?” “Nonexistent.” “Perfect. You’re on noise duty. Maximum disruption during cake. I’ll handle logistics.” “And the getaway?” “Kid’s tricycle. Fast, low-profile, blends in.” Bill narrowed his eyes. “With a basket?” “For the loot, obviously.” “This plan is insane.” Molly clapped him on the shoulder. “Insane? Or inspired?” “I’ll go with ‘pending felony review.’” “Good enough. Pack your best circus energy. We’re bringing the fun—and taking the stuff.”