Molly crouched behind a plastic inflatable slide shaped like a dragon, her black ski mask already askew from the humidity inside the bounce house. “You said this was a low-risk mark, Bill. A *birthday party*.” Bill adjusted his tiny bowler hat, which he insisted made him look “distinguished under pressure,” and peeked over a tippy-tower obstacle course. “And it is! No adults, just kids and one guy dressed as Captain Bubbles.” “Who’s probably packing a taser in his foam sword!” Molly hissed. A three-year-old waddled past with a neon sticker on his cheek and a goldfish in a bag. He stared at Bill’s shoes. “Sir,” the toddler said solemnly, “your shoes are shiny.” “Thank you,” Bill said, bowing slightly. “Polished them for the occasion.” Molly grabbed his sleeve. “Stop charming the witnesses! We’re supposed to be *invisible*. Like smoke. Like bad parenting.” “I *am* being invisible,” Bill said. “I just also happen to be dazzling. Multitasking.” A tinny version of “Happy Birthday” erupted from the party room. “Thirty seconds till cake,” Molly whispered. “That’s when they bring out the giant gift mountain. We grab it, bounce—literally—and vanish.” “Why bounce through the *bounce house*?” Bill asked. “Why not just walk out the front?” “Because security cam coverage is thinner here, genius. Plus, I saw the floor plan. There’s a maintenance tunnel leading to the sewer access under the ball pit.” Bill blinked. “You’re telling me there’s a secret passage under a pile of rubber balls?” “Every children’s party center built in the '90s has one. It’s in the city blueprints. Probably for escaping disgruntled clowns.” Bill nodded slowly. “Makes sense. Still—do we really need the *sewer*? Feels excessive. I just washed my gloves.” “It’s not *sewer*, it’s *utility corridor*. Now quiet. Cake’s coming.” The door burst open. Captain Bubbles waddled in, balancing a volcano-shaped cake with seventeen flickering candles. Behind him, two frazzled teenagers carried a wobbly tower of gift bags. Molly’s eyes gleamed. “There it is. The motherlode. Look at that—remote-control llama, glitter globe, at least three mystery boxes labeled ‘DO NOT OPEN BEFORE X-MAS.’” “That one’s not a present,” Bill said, squinting. “That’s a diaper cake.” “Still valuable on the black market,” Molly muttered. “Now move!” They dashed forward—Bill slipping on a rogue piece of spilled juice—but made it to the gift pile just as the kids began chanting, “Open one! Open one!” “Which one first?” Bill asked, already tearing into a box wrapped in rocket ships. “No no no—we *steal them*, not *open* them! We’ll catalog later!” “But this one’s making a noise,” Bill said, shaking it. “Is it a robot dog? A tiny chainsaw?” “You won’t know now, will you?” Molly snapped, stuffing three gift bags into a duffel shaped like a giant crayon. “Hurry up. Song’s almost over.” The final note of “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” rang out. Then—silence. A small voice piped up. “Where’d the presents go?” Captain Bubbles gasped. “The gifts! They’ve been stolen!” Kids started wailing. Balloons popped in terror. Molly yanked Bill toward the ball pit. “Go, go, go!” They belly-flopped into the pit. Bill surfaced, spitting out a red rubber ball. “I think I swallowed a dinosaur.” “Forget the dinosaurs—swim!” They plunged beneath the sea of plastic orbs, emerging in a dim tunnel lined with frayed wires and lost socks. Molly pulled up a grate. “Freedom.” Bill crawled out, adjusting his bowler. “That,” he declared, “was the most emotionally traumatic heist I’ve ever pulled.” “Next time, I’m bringing chloroform.” “For the kids?” “For *you*.”