The garage smelled of damp cardboard, motor oil, and the faint, lingering shame of a thousand failed schemes. Moonlight cut through the grimy window, spotlighting a folding table buried under glitter glue, a half-eaten clown cupcake, and a detailed blueprint of Happy Tots Party Palace. Molly, wiry and vibrating with manic energy, stabbed a finger at the back entrance marked “Employees Only—No Unauthorized Fun.” “See? Ventilation shaft above the ball pit. Big enough for Bill-sized incompetence.” Bill, a man whose default expression suggested he’d just smelled something suspicious in his own pocket, peered over his glasses. “It’s a ball pit, Mol. Made of plastic. They’re *kids*. Why would anyone store jewels there?” “Not jewels, you magnificent walnut,” Molly hissed, shoving a glitter-covered brochure in his face. “Presents. Dozens of 'em. Action figures. Tablets. That singing mermaid thing parents buy to punish themselves. All wrapped, all tagged, all piled on the ‘Gift Mountain’ by the punch bowl. It’s basically a charity drive… for us.” Bill adjusted his belt. “We’re robbing a kid’s birthday party?” “*Crashing* a kid’s birthday party,” Molly corrected, “with extreme financial exit intent. We go in during the magician’s act—peak distraction. You wear the mascot costume I liberated from Chuckles the Clown’s dressing room.” “Wait, we’re stealing from Chuckles?” Bill’s voice cracked. “We’re *impersonating* Chuckles’ ghost,” Molly snapped. “You wear the suit. I blend in as Aunt Karen—overworked, under-caffeinated, allergic to joy. You wheel out the gift cart during the grand finale vanish. Then—bam! Disappear with the loot.” “What if someone recognizes me?” “You’re wearing a giant foam nose and a wig that looks like a dead squirrel.” Molly mimed pulling on oversized gloves. “Also, kids under eight think all adults are interchangeable blobs of disappointment. You’ll be fine.” “And the security?” “Two, maybe three parents who think ‘perimeter’ means ‘close enough to see the piñata.’ Plus, the only surveillance is a fish-eye camera near the cake, and I’ve already bribed the goldfish.” “There’s a goldfish?” “It’s symbolic! The point is—minimal risk, maximum sparkle.” Bill sighed, picking up a squeaky chicken noisemaker from the table. “And the getaway?” “Via the bounce house. It inflates in thirty seconds. We load the loot, zip out the emergency exit—which I’ve weakened with love and a pocketknife—and we’re floating into the night like two very illegal balloons.” “Floating?” “It’s aerodynamic, Bill! Light as air! Also, slightly illegal to inflate within city limits, but that’s just paperwork.” Bill stared at the blueprint, then at the squeaky chicken. “What if the kids scream?” “They always scream. That’s the background noise of capitalism, baby.” Molly grinned, lighting a glitter pen like it was a cigar. “We’re not monsters. We’ll leave the cake. And one toy. For emotional continuity.” “Which one?” “The one that makes the least noise. Probably the felt tea set.” Bill groaned. “This is the weirdest heist yet.” “Exactly why it’ll work,” Molly said, slapping a fake mustache on his face. “No one expects criminals with poor spatial reasoning and glitter in their teeth. Now, practice your clown laugh.” Bill took a deep breath. “Hee hee…” “Louder. Like you’ve just crushed a child’s dream.” “Hee hee hee…” “Better. Now, wheel the cart. And remember—when I say ‘ta-da,’ you vanish. With the presents.” “What do I say when I vanish?” Molly paused. “Say nothing. Just go. With flair.”