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 pink party hat she’d swiped from a dollar store and glared at the inflatable unicorn tied to the van’s roof. It bobbed in the breeze like a judgmental spectator. “You *sure* this is the place?” Bill asked, squinting at the pastel-colored mansion through a pair of binoculars. “Because if this is just some rich kid’s birthday, I’m gonna be *real* disappointed. I was promised *loot*.” Molly snatched the binoculars. “Of *course* it’s the place. Look at that—balloon arch, a bouncy castle, and a piñata shaped like a dragon. That’s not just any party, Bill. That’s a *goldmine*.” Bill scratched his beard. “I dunno. Last time we hit a kids’ party, we got a bunch of LEGO sets and a My Little Pony. Took us *weeks* to fence that stuff.” “That was *different*,” Molly said, waving a hand. “That was some middle-class suburban nightmare. This? This is *old money*. These kids get *real* presents. iPads. Designer sneakers. Maybe even a *pony*.” Bill perked up. “A *pony*?” “Metaphorically,” Molly clarified. “But if there *is* a pony, we’re taking it.” Bill groaned. “We can’t steal a *pony*, Molly.” “Why not? It’s a *party*. They’ll think it’s part of the entertainment.” Bill rubbed his temples. “We are *not* pony thieves.” Molly grinned. “Yet.” A scream of laughter erupted from the mansion’s backyard, followed by the unmistakable sound of a piñata being bludgeoned. Molly’s eyes gleamed. “That’s our cue. We go in during the chaos. Distract the parents, grab the gifts, and *bam*—we’re out before the cake’s even cut.” Bill adjusted his fake mustache. “And how, exactly, are we supposed to *distract* them?” Molly reached into her purse and pulled out a whoopee cushion. “With *style*.” Bill stared. “You’re joking.” “Do I *look* like I’m joking?” Molly blew up the cushion with a dramatic *pffft*. “You take the whoopee cushion, I’ll handle the small talk. Once the parents are too busy laughing at your *hilarious* fart noises, I’ll slip into the gift table like a ninja.” Bill sighed. “I hate my life.” “No, you don’t,” Molly said, patting his shoulder. “You *love* the thrill. The danger. The *art* of the steal.” “Mostly I love not getting arrested,” Bill muttered. Molly ignored him, already climbing out of the van. “Come on, partner. Let’s go make some *magic*.” Bill followed, grumbling. “If I get arrested for this, I’m telling the cops you made me do it.” Molly adjusted her hat. “And I’ll tell them you *volunteered*.” Bill groaned as they crept toward the mansion, the sound of children’s laughter and the distant *pop* of a balloon filling the air. Somewhere inside, a mountain of unwrapped presents awaited—and Molly was *not* leaving without them.