The glow of a flickering streetlamp caught the vinyl booth where Molly slurped a milkshake three hours past its prime. Bill, across from her, tapped a spoon against the edge of a lukewarm coffee cup like it owed him money. “Let me get this straight,” Molly said, wiping chocolate from her upper lip. “We’re robbing a birthday party. For kids.” “Not just any birthday party,” Bill said. “Eighteen kids. Five parents. One clown. Maximum distraction. Minimum security.” “Minimum security,” she repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve seen a clown with a balloon animal arsenal? That’s a tactical nightmare right there.” “He’s part of the plan,” Bill said, leaning forward. “He’s got glitter in his hair, honking nose, the works. He won’t pay attention to two catering staff slipping through the back.” “We’re not catering staff.” “We will be. I already ordered the uniforms. ‘Fun Time Foodies.’ The hats look ridiculous. That’s the beauty.” Molly narrowed her eyes. “And what about the dogs? You said there were dogs.” “Two Chihuahuas. One named Cupcake. The other, Marshmallow. They’ll be distracted by cake. It’s science.” “You don’t know that.” “I read it in a parenting blog. Trust the blog, Molly.” She leaned back, studying him. “And the presents? You’re certain?” “Wrapped, stacked, sitting under a cardboard castle shaped like a dragon with googly eyes. Prime targets. We hit during the piñata—chaos, sugar rush, parents filming everything on their phones. We grab the loot, toss the ‘Thank You’ balloons in the dumpster, and vanish like last year’s resolution.” “Vanish how?” “Golf carts. I borrowed them.” “You *borrowed* golf carts?” “Borrowed implies intention to return. I *repurposed* them.” “From where?” “A retirement community called Sunshine Pines. They won’t miss them until tomorrow’s bingo.” Molly stared. Then laughed—a sharp, snorting thing. “You’re insane. A five-year-old’s birthday. We robbed a federal reserve armored truck last month!” “And look how that turned out. You broke a nail, I got glitter glue in my socks. This is simpler. Safer. Less armed guards. More cupcakes.” “Are we at least keeping one present?” she asked. “For research?” “One. The one with the biggest bow. If it squeaks, we keep it.” “And the cake?” “Forbidden,” Bill said sternly. “We do not touch cake. That’s how you get caught. One bite, then you’re signing autographs for Toby the Turtle. No. We’re professionals.” “Debatable,” Molly muttered. “But fine. We go in dressed as Fun Time Foodies. We avoid the clown, dodge the Chihuahuas, and swipe the loot during the piñata. Then we *repurpose* the golf carts and vanish.” “Exactly,” Bill said, finally sipping his coffee. “It’s elegant.” “It’s ridiculous.” “It’s foolproof.” “You said that about the armored truck.” “That was a minor logistical hiccup.” “And if a kid sees us?” “Look innocent. Offer them juice boxes. Kids love juice boxes. It’s practically a universal truce flag.” Molly sighed, swirling the last of her milkshake. “You know what’s going to happen, right?” “What?” “One of those kids is going to point at us and scream, ‘MOM! THAT LADY HAS A GUN!’ And then we’re explaining ourselves to a room full of enraged parents and a man in a rainbow wig.” Bill shrugged. “Then we run. We’ve done it before.” She stared at him. “We are *so* going to hell.” “Probably,” Bill said, smiling. “But have you seen the loot list? Three hoverboards, a karaoke machine, and something called a ‘Robo-Zoo Pal Deluxe.’ That thing’s gotta be worth a fortune.”