Molly adjusted the ridiculously sparkly magician’s top hat, a crown that felt like cheap plastic and shattered dreams. Through the van’s dusty windshield, she stared at the suburban backyard ahead, which was currently having a joy-induced seizure. A massive green inflatable dinosaur writhed under the afternoon sun, and a dozen children screamed at a frequency high enough to shatter glass. The air, thick with the scent of saccharine cake and desperation, was their target: Timmy Thompson’s seventh birthday party. “Alright, one more time,” she said, her voice wound as tight as a violin string. “I’m ‘Magic Molly.’ You’re ‘Assistant Bill.’ Our job is to create a distraction, grab the presents, and get out.” She patted a battered briefcase on the dash, which contained not cash, but a set of silk handkerchiefs from a dollar store and a rubber banana. Bill, in the passenger seat, was busy trying to wrestle a twisted balloon animal into a recognizable shape, succeeding only in popping it into a sad, deflated sausage. He just grunted. “Magic Molly? I prefer ‘Balloon Bill.’ Or ‘Bearded Bill.’ Can I grow a beard?” He gestured hopefully at his smooth chin. Molly closed her eyes, taking a deep breath that smelled of old pizza and regret. “No. And you don’t play with the props. You’re there to assist, not to play.” She pointed a chipped-nail-finger towards the house. “The presents are on the table by the patio, right next to the giant, smiling unicorn piñata. See it?” But Bill’s attention had already drifted, his eyes wide with child-like wonder. “But Molly, they have a bouncy castle. A *castle*. We’ve never knocked over a place with a castle before. It really elevates our brand.” “That’s a vinyl blow-up toy for six-year-olds, not Fort Knox,” she snapped, feeling a headache coming on. “Focus.” She slapped a hand-drawn map onto his leg. “Entrance is on the side, by the grill. We go in, I do a ‘disappearing act,’ you load the gifts into this duffel bag.” Bill sighed, poking the limp balloon corpse. “Fine. But what’s in the piñata? I bet it’s the sour gummy worms.” “I don’t care if it’s filled with gold doubloons or the Tooth Fairy’s baby teeth,” Molly said, leaning across him. “We want the stuff under the table. The wrapped stuff. You got me? That’s the real score.” “Got it,” Bill said, his eyes suddenly widening with a new alertness. “Wait, is that a clown? He looks shifty. His flower squirts water. I think he might be a competitor.” Molly’s head hit the steering wheel with a solid thud, the horn letting out a long, mournful wail that blended perfectly with the faint sound of “Happy Birthday” drifting from the house.