The balloons bobbed lazily against the ceiling like overinflated sentinels, their metallic sheen catching the last slivers of afternoon sun through the party room’s frosted windows. Molly adjusted her glittery tiara—stolen from a costume shop three towns over—and sighed as she surveyed the battlefield. "This is either genius or the dumbest thing we’ve ever done," she muttered, though Bill wasn’t listening. He was too busy stuffing his face with a handful of gummy worms he’d swiped from the snack table. "Bill," Molly hissed, snatching the half-eaten worm from his fingers and tossing it back into the bowl. "We are *undercover*. You can’t just raid the refreshments like a raccoon in a dumpster." Bill wiped his sticky hands on his "World’s Okayest Uncle" T-shirt—another thrift store acquisition—and grinned. "Relax. No one suspects a guy in a shirt this sad. Besides, the kids are too busy screaming over that piñata to notice us." Molly shot him a look. "That piñata is *our* distraction. You were supposed to ‘accidentally’ knock it over in five minutes, not let some six-year-old with a bat turn it into a war crime." Bill shrugged, eyeing the mountain of presents under the table. "Eh, improvisation. The parents are all drunk on fruit punch anyway. We go in, grab the loot, and bounce before the birthday song even starts." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "You realize we’re stealing from *children*, right? That’s like robbing a hospital, but with more glitter." "Nah," Bill said, already crouching toward the presents. "We’re just… redistributing joy. To *us*."