Molly crouched behind a bush shaped like a giggling clown, binoculars pressed to her face. “You’re telling me the entire security system of Chuckles the Clown’s Birthday Palace is… one motion-activated disco ball?” Bill adjusted his black ski mask, which had two poorly drawn X’s on it. “Correction. It’s a motion-activated disco ball *with glitter dispersion*. That’s basically napalm for clowns.” “I’ve seen glitter,” Molly said, lowering the binoculars. “I have not seen glitter *weapons*.” “That’s because you don’t read the trade magazines, Molly. *Security Today* called it ‘revolutionary mood deterrent technology.’ Anyone exposed begins laughing uncontrollably. Lasts up to forty-five minutes.” Molly narrowed her eyes. “We’re stealing from a five-year-old’s party. Why does this place need defense-grade cheer?” “Because kids are high-risk,” Bill said solemnly. “Have you *met* a seven-year-old? They’ll rat you out for a glow stick and half a cupcake.” Molly scratched her head. “So how do we bypass the disco ball of doom?” “Simple,” Bill said, pulling a tiny umbrella out of his backpack. “We go in during nap time.” “Nap time?” “Kids conk out at 2:17 PM exactly. It’s science. We slip in during the post-pizza lull, before the cake explosion at 3:00. In and out, zero glitter exposure.” Molly stared. “You’ve been scoping this place for weeks, haven’t you?” “I volunteered as a balloon artist last Tuesday. Learned more than just how to twist a poodle. Also, kids love me. I’m basically a tiny adult with better hair.” “Your hair looks like a garden hose.” “Exactly. Kids trust things that resemble household plumbing.” Molly sighed. “Okay, fine. So we go during nap time. But what about the guard? The one with the unibrow and the walkie-talkie?” “Oh, Gary? We’re cool. I gave him a balloon sword. He called me ‘master of the spiral.’ We’re basically brothers now.” “You can’t bribe security with a balloon.” “He didn’t *know* it was a bribe! That’s the beauty of it. It was also slightly sticky. I may have coated it in temporary adhesive so it’d be harder for him to throw.” “You’re a monster.” “I’m a visionary.” Molly checked her watch. “So we hit at 2:20 PM. We avoid the glitter ball, sneak past Gary, and take the loot.” “Not *all* the loot.” She shot him a look. “We are *not* leaving presents behind.” “We leave the piñata. It’s shaped like a unicorn. It’ll scream when opened. High-pitched. Like a teakettle being murdered.” “No screaming piñatas.” “Also, Rule 47-B of Thieves’ Code: never take the last piece of cake. It’s bad luck.” “You made that up.” “I may have appended the Thieves’ Code last Tuesday while hiding in a ball pit.” Molly groaned. “Fine. Leave the cake. But I’m keeping the Lego castle. I’ve wanted one since I was six.” “And I get the karaoke machine. I’ve been working on my *Bohemian Rhapsody*.” “You can’t sing.” “I can sing *badly*, which is all that’s required for children’s entertainment.” They crept toward the back entrance, a giant inflatable slide shaped like a dragon yawning open. Molly paused. “One more thing. If we get caught, we do *not* say my middle name is ‘Pumpkin’.” “Too late. I already told Gary that. He thought it was adorable.” “You’re unbelievable.” “You love me.” “I tolerate you under extreme duress.” Bill pulled out two kid-sized sneakers from his pack. “Put these on. We’ll blend in. You can be ‘Tiny Molly’ and I’ll be ‘Cool Uncle Bill Who Never Sends Birthday Cards But Always Brings Fireworks.’” Molly stared at the footwear. “I hate you so much right now.” “Love you too,” Bill said, already limping into the dragon’s mouth. “And remember: if anyone asks, we’re here for the magic show.”