The van smelled of stale donuts and regret. Molly tapped a pen against her notebook, staring at the brightly colored flyer: *Timmy’s Tenth Birthday Bash! Bouncy Castle! Cotton Candy! 25 Presents!* “So let me get this straight,” Bill said, peeling a banana. “We’re robbing a kid’s birthday party. On a Tuesday. At three in the afternoon.” “Low security,” Molly said. “Parents distracted. Sugar-crazed toddlers—total cover.” “And the getaway?” “Bounce house. We crawl in, load the loot, bounce out.” “*Bounce* out?” “Stealthy bouncing. It’s a thing.” “You’re insane.” “And you owe me three hundred bucks from the aquarium incident.” Bill sighed. “Fine. But I’m not wearing a clown nose.” “You don’t have to. I already ordered the outfit.” “Molly.” “What?” “I said *no clown nose*.” “It’s not a nose. It’s a walkie-talkie.” “...Why?” “For coordination.” “So the clown nose is a *radio*?” “It’s stylish *and* tactical.” “This is the worst plan you’ve ever had.” “It’s genius. By 3:47 p.m., we’ll be rich. And Timmy will have *emotional growth*.” “Kid’s gonna need therapy.” “Everyone does, Bill. Everyone does.” She tossed him a tiny polyester rainbow wig. “That’s not part of the plan.” “It is now.” Bill groaned. “This is why we don’t work with mimes.” “We don’t work with mimes because you punched one.” “He looked at me funny.” “Everything looks at you funny, Bill.”