Rain pattered against the diner window as Molly sipped her black coffee. Bill flipped through a folder labeled “Operation Piñata Heist” with a red crayon. “You’re sure the clown’s the weak point?” Molly asked. “Totally. Clown’s name is Bubbles. Allergic to glitter. One puff from a glitter bomb and he’s down for ten minutes. Minimum.” Molly smirked. “Ten minutes? That’s barely time to grab the piñata, let alone thirty gift bags.” “We don’t grab the piñata. We *become* the piñata.” She stared. “You want me to wear the donkey outfit?” “No, *I* wear the donkey. You’re the distraction. Do the chicken dance. Kids won’t care why some lady’s doing the chicken dance. They’ll join. Chaos. Perfect cover.” “And if the dad DJ plays ‘Let It Go’ again?” “Abort. Immediate abort. I’ve got trauma from that song. Last job, remember? Took three tequilas to recover.” Molly scribbled notes on a napkin. “We’ll need a getaway stroller.” “Already got one. Pimped it. Motorcycle engine, bulletproof bubbles, storage trunk for loot.” “Loot being mostly Legos and art kits.” “Art kits are *valuable*, Molly. Rich kids never use them. Resell to overachieving toddlers.” She sipped her coffee. “You’re a visionary.” “Also, no touching the cake. It’s a trap. All sprinkles, no structural integrity.” “Noted. No cake. Only gifts.” Bill extended a gloved hand. “Then it’s decided?” Molly shook it. “Operation Piñata Heist is a go.” A waitress passed by. “Y’all want pie?” Bill whispered, “Only the stolen kind.”