The backseat of Bill’s stolen minivan smelled like stale gummy worms and regret, which, Molly decided, was just the right ambiance for a heist. She adjusted the glittery tiara she’d swiped from a dollar store—*disguise*, she called it—and squinted at the inflatable castle across the street. It pulsed like a neon tumor, its plastic walls shuddering under the weight of a dozen shrieking six-year-olds. Bill, hunched over the steering wheel, was picking at a loose thread on his *World’s Okayest Uncle* T-shirt. “You’re sure this is the place?” he muttered. “Because last time you ‘scouted’ a job, we ended up in a timeshare presentation.” Molly waved a hand. “That was a *miscommunication*. This? This is a goldmine. Look at those presents.” She pointed at a mountain of wrapped boxes under a *Happy Birthday, Timmy!* banner. “Kids these days get *Lego sets with remote controls*. We’re talking *resale value*.” Bill groaned. “We’re stealing from a *kid’s party*. That’s like robbing a lemonade stand. There’s a special circle of hell for that.” “Oh, please. Timmy won’t even notice. His parents are too busy pretending to enjoy ‘Baby Shark’ for the 47th time.” Molly pulled a crumpled map from her pocket—drawn on the back of a McDonald’s napkin—and smoothed it out. “Here’s the play. You distract the parents with your *charming* uncle energy, I slip in, grab the loot, and we’re out before the piñata even hits the ground.” Bill stared at her. “My *charming* uncle energy?” “You’ve got the vibe. Like a guy who *definitely* knows how to fix a bike but also might have a basement.” “I *do* know how to fix a bike.” “Exactly.” Molly grinned. “Now, the hard part—getting past the *security*.” She nodded toward a lanky teenager in a *Party Monitor* shirt, slouching near the snack table. “That’s Greg. He’s 16, he’s bored, and he’s *desperate* for someone to talk to. You’re his new best friend.” Bill rubbed his temples. “So I’m supposed to *befriend* a teenager while you rob his employer?” “Think of it as community service. You’re giving him a story to tell his friends. ‘Yeah, this one time, some guy in a terrible shirt told me about his *very* questionable life choices.’” Molly patted his shoulder. “You’ll be a legend.” Bill sighed, then reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a half-melted candy bar. “Fine. But if I get arrested, I’m telling them you forced me at gunpoint.” “With what gun? The one made of *your guilt*?” Molly checked her watch—a plastic Casio she’d “borrowed” from a gas station. “Alright, showtime. Remember, you’re *Uncle Bill*, here to *bond* with the kids. Maybe teach them a *life lesson* about *not trusting strangers*.” Bill muttered something that sounded like *“I hate my life”* as he climbed out of the van. Molly watched him saunter toward Greg, his shoulders already slumping in defeat. She waited until Bill had lured the teen into a conversation about *“the good old days of dial-up internet”* before slipping out of the van, her tiara askew. The inflatable castle loomed. Inside, the birthday boy was mid-tantrum over a missing cupcake. *Perfect*. Molly crouched behind a table of half-eaten hot dogs, her fingers brushing the first present—a suspiciously heavy box labeled *“For Timmy, Love Dad”*. She pried it open just enough to see the gleam of an *iPad*. *Jackpot*. “Hey.” Molly froze. A small voice, right behind her. She turned slowly. A kid in a dinosaur onesie was staring at her, clutching a juice box. “You’re not supposed to be back here,” he said, dead serious. Molly’s brain short-circuited. “Uh. I’m the *party planner*.” The kid blinked. “No, you’re not. The party planner has a clipboard.” “*Damn it, Karen.*” Molly forced a laugh. “Okay, fine. I’m the *present fairy*. I make sure all the gifts get to the *right* kids.” The kid considered this. “Do you have wings?” “They’re *invisible*.” “Prove it.” Molly’s eye twitched. Across the room, Bill was now *actually* fixing a bike for Greg, who looked equal parts impressed and concerned. She was on her own. “Alright, kid,” she whispered, crouching to his level. “How about this—I’ll let you *help* me. You distract the other kids, I’ll… *bless* the presents. Deal?” The kid grinned. “Deal. But I want a cut.” Molly groaned. *This was why she hated working with professionals.*