Molly adjusted the ski mask over her curls. “Tell me again why we’re robbing a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party?” Bill crouched beside her behind a dumpster, peering at the neon-lit entrance. “Because, genius, parents go all-out for these things. Cash envelopes, gift bags, a piñata full of candy *and* twenties. It’s a goldmine.” “It’s also filled with six-year-olds.” “Exactly. Who’s gonna suspect us? We’re just two adults with poor life choices near a ball pit.” Molly narrowed her eyes. “You realize we’re wearing clown shoes, right?” “They’re for blending in,” Bill said, tapping his nose like a mime. “We go in as Clucky the Chicken’s long-lost cousins. You’re Chickaletta. I’m… Featherington.” “Featherington?” She groaned. “Did you get that from a breakfast cereal?” “It’s dignified!” “There’s glitter on your forehead.” “It’s festive.” He straightened. “Now, game plan: We infiltrate during the magic show. Kid screams, people look away, we swap the gift table with our duffel. Swap done, we vanish into the ball pit.” “The *ball* pit?” “It’s a tactical advantage. No one goes in. It’s basically a moat.” “People have drowned in those things.” “That was one time. And it was a very large hamster.” He checked his watch. “Show starts in five. You got the decoy gifts?” Molly hefted a duffel. “Yeah. Fake presents stuffed with bricks, rocks, and a sad cactus.” “Genius. They open them, think Johnny’s grandma’s cheap, and no one calls the cops till tomorrow.” “And what about the animatronic band? They’ll see us.” “They’re programmed to play ‘Happy Birthday’ and judge parents silently. They don’t move.” “What if one turns its head?” “Then I’ll cry. And offer it a juice box.” She sighed. “This is the dumbest heist since the Great Slime Fountain Capers.” “It worked, didn’t it?” “You got stuck in a tube.” “I escaped with glitter and pride.” Bill slapped her shoulder. “Trust me. This’ll be smooth. We go in, do the swap, and by the time ‘Put Your Head on My Shoulder’ ends, we’re sipping coconut water in Belize.” “Belize doesn’t have coconuts.” “Stop fact-checking the dream.” A sudden burst of laughter erupted as the front doors swung open. A pack of kids in paper crowns stampeded toward the stage. “Go time,” Bill whispered. They scrambled up, wobbling in oversized clown shoes, and shuffled toward the entrance. “Wait,” Molly hissed. “We forgot passwords.” “What passwords?” “To get past the animatronics. Don’t they have facial recognition?” “No. But Clucky *does* give a quiz. Last time, it was about nachos.” “So what’s the answer?” “Cheese.” “Just cheese?” “Always cheese.” They ducked inside, the noise hitting like a wall. Balloons bounced, a toddler flung popcorn, and the band played a sluggish rendition of “YMCA.” “Gift table’s near the ball pit,” Molly said, dodging a spinning ride-on turtle. Bill spotted Clucky on stage. “Okay, we avoid eye contact. And whatever you do—don’t sing.” They inched forward, duffel dragging, when suddenly a spotlight hit them. Clucky’s head twitched. His beady eyes locked on Bill. “Uh-oh,” Bill muttered. A robotic voice crackled. “Password?” Molly froze. “Cheese?” Clucky paused. Then burst into applause. “Correct! Welcome, Featherington and Chickaletta!” The kids clapped. Bill grinned. “Told you.” They reached the gift table. Bill swapped the real pile with the bag of bricks in three seconds flat. Molly exhaled. “We did it.” Bill beamed. “Next stop: Belize. Or at least the Taco Bell on Route 9.” Just then, a child tugged Bill’s pant leg. “Mister,” the kid said, holding up a real gift, “you dropped your receipt.” Bill paled. “That’s… not mine.” “It says ‘Property of Bill.’ And it’s sticky.” Molly groaned. “Did you *lick* the envelope again?” “It helped it stay closed!”