Molly crouched behind a dumpster painted like a clown’s face, its rancid grin matching her sour mood. Bill adjusted his balaclava, which stubbornly refused to stay over one ear, flopping like a sad puppy. Around them, the birthday fortress—Mr. Pinball’s Playland—throbbed with neon and squeals. Balloons bobbed like overinflated heads, and a piñata shaped like a unicorn dangled precariously, possibly stuffed with candy or vengeance. Molly unrolled a blueprint sketched on a napkin from Taco Tuesday. “We go in during the magic show,” she whispered, pointing to a vent labeled “Dance Zone—Do Not Enter (Seriously).” “Distraction in five… four…” Bill pulled out a harmonica and played three mournful notes. A squirrel nearby stopped mid-nut-burial and stared in judgment. “Wrong cue,” Molly hissed. “That was the funeral song.” “It sets the mood,” Bill mumbled. Inside, a magician in a sequined vest made a rubber chicken disappear. Children gasped. Perfect. Molly pried the vent loose with a plastic spoon from her backpack—“Never trust metal. Too traceable.” They slithered through, shedding glitter and self-respect. The gift table loomed: wrapped stacks adorned with lopsided tags reading “To: Timmy, From: Mom (and Dad, but he forgot).” Bill reached for a box shaped like a dinosaur. “This one’s mine.” “No. The pony’s yours. You lost the rock-paper-scissors.” “But the pony’s pink.” “It’s fate, Bill. Embrace it.” They began stuffing loot into pillowcases that read “Sweet Dreams!” with questionable irony. Somewhere, a kazoo solo signaled doom. Or dessert. Either way, they were committed.