Molly adjusted her glittery party hat and leaned against the bakery’s display case, eyeing the "Happy 6th Birthday, Timmy!" banner across the street. "Alright, Bill, we’ve got a problem. The kid’s parents hired a *clown*." Bill didn’t look up from his map of the party venue, a deflated balloon animal clutched in his fist. "A clown? Since when do clowns stop heists?" "Since they started carrying *whoopee cushions full of mace* and a *trust fall* that’s actually a bear trap." Bill sighed, rubbing his temples. "You’re making that up." "Am I? Because last week, I saw a clown at the circus *laugh maniacally* while juggling *live scorpions*. That’s not a hobby, Bill. That’s a *warning*." Bill folded the map with a snap. "Fine. New plan. We go in as *parents*." Molly blinked. "We don’t have kids." "We’ll say our kid’s *imaginary*." "And when they ask for proof?" Bill pulled a crumpled photo from his pocket—a blurry shot of a toddler mid-tantrum, scribbled on with "World’s Okayest Child" in Sharpie. "Behold. Our *son*, *Chad*." Molly squinted. "That’s a stock photo of a crying baby with a mustache drawn on." "Exactly. No one questions a *mustached* child. It’s *distracting*." Molly groaned. "We’re stealing from a *children’s party*, not infiltrating the CIA." Bill grinned. "Same difference. Now put on your *‘I definitely didn’t just rob a bank’* face and let’s go ruin a six-year-old’s life."