The van smelled of old pizza and regret. Molly tapped a pen against a crayon-smeared map of the suburban neighborhood. "You sure this intel’s solid? Last time, the 'vault' was a hamster cage." Bill adjusted his ski mask — bright pink, stolen from a ballet recital — and nodded. "Triple-confirmed. Three o’clock, the Piñata drops. Parents distracted, kids screaming, candy everywhere. Chaos is our camouflage." "Camouflage? Bill, you’re wearing glitter body paint." "It’s tactical glitter. Low visibility under blacklight." Molly sighed. "And the dog? You said there’s a dog. A ‘yappy beast with teeth like a shrew.’ Your words." "Locked in the bathroom. I checked during naptime. He barks at shadows. Also, squirrels. And joy." "Perfect. We go in during the ‘Musical Chairs Massacre.’ That’s when emotions peak." "Right. I grab the loot. You handle the clown." "Excuse me?" "He’s armed with whipped cream and ennui. Dangerous combo." "What if the kids see us?" Bill grinned. "Then we tell ’em we’re undercover party inspectors. OSHA for bounce houses." Molly stared. “OSHA doesn’t cover ball pits.” “Exactly. That’s why it’ll work.” He checked his watch. "Ten minutes. You brought the loot bags?" "Yeah. Garbage bags covered in cartoon dinosaurs." "Excellent. Subtle and nostalgic." They bumped fists. Bill whispered, "Remember: no witnesses, no evidence, and absolutely no eating the cake samples." "Last time was one time! And that frosting was *art*." "Focus, Molly. Presents first. dessert after."