The backseat of Bill’s stolen ice cream truck smelled like melted sprinkles and regret. Molly adjusted her clown nose—*voluntarily*—and glared at him over a crumpled map of the community center. “You *swear* this place has a piñata full of cash?” she said, poking the map with a glittery fingernail. Bill wiped chocolate syrup off his sleeve. “Not *full* full. But the birthday kid’s dad is a bookie. He stashes emergency funds in the *‘Goodie Bag of Doom’*—his words, not mine. And let me tell you, that piñata’s got more twenties than a Monopoly game night.” Molly groaned. “We’re robbing a *five-year-old’s* party. If we get caught, we’re going to jail *and* the naughty list.” “Relax. We’ll be in and out before the magician pulls the rabbit out of his hat. Worst case, we blame the balloon animal guy.” She side-eyed him. “You *do* realize the balloon animal guy is just a guy with a degree in regret, right?” Bill grinned, tossing her a party hat. “Put this on. You look like a depressed circus mascot.” Molly jammed the hat onto her head. “I *hate* you.” “No, you don’t. You love me. Also, grab the whoopee cushions. We’re gonna need a distraction.” She sighed, digging through the truck’s glove compartment. “We’re stealing from *children*, Bill.” “Yeah, but think of it this way—we’re *also* stealing from a guy who owes money to a guy named *Vinnie the Knuckle*.” Molly paused. “…Fair point. But if I see a single *‘Happy Birthday’* banner, I’m out.” Bill revved the engine. “Deal. Now let’s go make some orphans cry.”