Molly adjusted her ski mask in the rearview mirror of the dented minivan, checking her reflection with the scrutiny of a jewelry appraiser. The vehicle smelled like stale french fries and regret, parked three blocks from the suburban house where helium balloons bobbed against a gray sky. Through the windows, they could hear the shriek of sugar-fueled children playing musical chairs. She pulled a crumpled flyer from her coat pocket featuring a Spider-Man clipart and a warning about peanut allergies. Bill sat in the passenger seat attempting to fit a crowbar into a gift bag decorated with cartoon dinosaurs, his clown nose honking softly every time he shifted. He wore a trench coat over striped pajamas, looking less like a master thief and more like a sleepwalking accountant. His fingers, stained with ink from previous heists, fumbled with the glittery handles until the bag ripped, spilling tissue paper everywhere. The red nose honked again as he sighed, a sound of pure clown depression. "You sure about this?" Bill asked, adjusting the red nose that had seemed hilarious during the planning phase but now felt like a war crime against dignity. "Feels beneath us. We're art thieves, Molly. We stole that forgery from the Met." "Beneath us?" Molly snatched the invitation back. "Do you know how much a PS5 costs? Little Tommy's getting three of them. We hit this party, we're clearing five grand easy. That's three months' rent, Bill. Three months." "But it's a bounce house, Mol. We're stealing from a bounce house. There are children wearing party hats. With elastic chin straps and everything." "We're stealing from the gift table while the bounce house distracts the witnesses. It's perfect. Low security, high emotional chaos, parents too busy preventing sugar comas to notice us. Besides, he'll get more presents by Tuesday." Bill honked his nose against the window. "What about the clown? I saw him juggling in the driveway." "What about him?" "Real clown. Professional. He's got the big shoes. Could be competition." "We go in as the cake people. I've got the clipboard. We grab the loot during the piñata—everyone's blindfolded, swinging sticks around. If he gets wise, we bribe him." Molly dug through a duffel bag, retrieving two white catering jackets that smelled like mothballs. She tossed one onto Bill's lap. "And if the birthday boy sees us?" Bill asked, trying to button the jacket over his ridiculous nose. "We tell him we're Santa's cleanup crew." She pulled out two badges she'd laminated that morning, edges sealed with glitter glue. "See? Official." Bill studied his badge. "This says 'North Pole Security.'" "It's thematic. Now stuff the gift bags under your shirt—we're going in hot. Remember, cry if anyone asks questions. Adults ignore crying caterers." "I feel bad about the Legos," Bill muttered, adjusting his padded stomach. "Kids love Legos. I loved Legos." "Then buy yourself the Death Star afterward. Focus, Bill. This is the big leagues." "Of children's entertainment theft." "Exactly." Molly pulled the ski mask down. "Now grab the present sack. And lose the nose before someone thinks you're part of the entertainment."