The backseat of Bill’s stolen ice cream truck smelled like expired waffle cones and regret, which was fitting because this entire heist was starting to feel like both. Molly adjusted the oversized clown nose she’d duct-taped to her face—because nothing said *inconspicuous* like a grown woman in a rainbow wig and suspiciously tight polka-dot overalls—and glared at the blueprint spread across Bill’s lap. “You *swear* this is the right house?” she hissed, poking a finger at the smudged ink where someone had clearly drawn a stick-figure birthday boy mid-sugar crash. “Because if we’re about to rob a *funeral* instead of a kid’s party, I’m throwing you out of this truck and driving straight to Mexico.” Bill didn’t look up from the blueprint, which he’d been studying like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Relax, Moll. The invite said *‘Magical Unicorn Extravaganza’* in glitter glue. That’s not a eulogy.” He tapped a grease-stained finger against a square labeled *PRESENT TABLE (GUARDED BY PARENTS AND ONE VERY SUSPICIOUSLY LARGE DOG)*. “Besides, you’re the one who insisted we hit a kids’ party. Said it’d be *easy*.” “It *is* easy!” Molly snatched the blueprint and crumpled it into a ball. “Kids don’t lock their presents in vaults. They don’t have motion sensors. Hell, half the time they don’t even *wrap* the stuff—they just dump it in a pile like a dragon’s hoard and call it a day.” She tossed the paper at his head. “The hard part was getting *you* to agree to wear the costume.” Bill adjusted the elastic waistband of his own clown getup—a hand-me-down from a particularly depressing circus heist gone wrong—and scowled. “I look like a rejected *It* cosplayer. And this wig itches.” “Quit whining. You’re the one who said we needed a *distraction*.” Molly reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a whoopee cushion, a bag of confetti, and what looked suspiciously like a whoopee cushion *filled with confetti*. “I, on the other hand, came prepared.” Bill eyed the contraptions. “You’re gonna blow up a whoopee cushion at a kids’ party?” “No, I’m gonna *strategically deploy* it near the present table while you ‘accidentally’ knock over the punch bowl.” She grinned. “Chaos is our ally, Bill. And nothing creates chaos like a room full of six-year-olds who think someone just farted on their cake.” Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re stealing from *children*, Molly.” “Correction: we’re stealing from *parents who bought overpriced LEGO sets they’ll never assemble*.” She shoved the whoopee cushion into his hands. “Now, are we doing this, or are we sitting here until the ice cream melts and we’re left with nothing but a truck full of sad, lukewarm sprinkles?” Bill sighed, long and dramatic, like a man who’d just been asked to rob a bank with a butter knife. “Fine. But if I get puked on by a toddler, I’m billing you for the dry cleaning.” Molly clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit! Now, remember—laugh maniacally, but not *too* maniacally. We’re supposed to be *fun* clowns, not *‘oh god they’re coming for the children’* clowns.” Bill muttered something that sounded like *“I hate my life,”* but he followed her out of the truck anyway, his oversized shoes flopping against the pavement like a pair of sad, deflated balloons. The front yard of the party house was a minefield of plastic flamingos and balloon animals tied to every available surface. A banner that read *HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY, TIMMY!* fluttered in the breeze, already half-torn, like the party had started without them. Molly took a deep breath, adjusted her nose, and grinned. “Showtime.”