Molly crouched behind a bright pink inflatable slide, squinting through binoculars shaped like a unicorn horn. “There are *clowns*, Bill. Plural. Why didn’t you say there’d be clowns?” Bill adjusted his black ski mask—which had bunny ears—and peered over a bush shaped like a giant cupcake. “I *did* say that. At the briefing.” “You said ‘small humans in distress.’ That’s not even close.” “They *are* in distress,” Bill said, affronted. “Look at them—weaving. Red noses. One just vomited glitter into a trash can. That’s peak distress.” Molly lowered the unicorn-binoculars. “That was *cake*. And I don’t care if they’re covered in macaroni art. We are not equipped to outrun a clown with a whoopee cushion and a vendetta.” “We’re professionals,” Bill said, pulling out a laminated diagram titled Operation: Birthday Blitz. “This was *your* idea.” “My idea was to hit a *boring* birthday party. One with toddlers, juice boxes, and parental negligence. Not this circus of chaos. There’s a *human-sized squirrel* doing the robot near the cake!” Bill scanned the yard. “That’s Dave. He works part-time at the city park. Good dancer, poor life choices.” “You *know* a party clown?” “I *network*, Molly.” Molly tugged at her balaclava, which had started to smell faintly of cotton candy. “I hate that you network. We’re thieves, not chamber of commerce.” “We’ve got a brand,” Bill whispered. “Silent, efficient, *mysterious*. That’s us.” “Yeah, and right now we look like two creeps hiding behind a slide themed after a narcoleptic horse.” “It’s a narwhal,” Bill corrected. “I don’t care what it is! We’re supposed to steal presents, not get emotionally blackmailed into joining the piñata line.” Bill glanced toward the gift table—a long table draped in rainbow fabric, groaning under wrapped boxes, some topped with action figures, others with handmade cards reading “Happy B-Day Timmy!” A toddler in a dinosaur costume was currently trying to eat a gift tag. “This is prime time,” Bill muttered. “Parents are distracted. The magician just made a rabbit cry. No one’s watching the loot.” “And what if Timmy opens his gifts early?” Molly hissed. “Then we’re stealing already-unwrapped stuff. That’s not theft. That’s littering.” “It’s still illegal.” “But it lacks *dignity*.” “Molly, we’re stealing from a five-year-old’s birthday. Dignity left the building when we bought these thermal binoculars with googly eyes on them.” She sighed. “Fine. But only if we skip the clown cupcakes.” “Deal. Now watch—the wind’s about to shift. When the bubble machine blows toward the bouncy castle, we make our move. Distraction, misdirection, *delicacy*.” “Delicacy? Bill, we’re stuffing Nerf guns and glitter bombs into a duffel bag.” “We are *curators* of chaos,” he said, puffing his chest. “We redistribute joy.” “From children to us.” “Exactly. Supply and demand.” A high-pitched squeal erupted as the magician set a balloon animal on fire. “That’s our cue,” Bill whispered, standing. “Ready?” Molly adjusted her backpack filled with lockpicks, smoke pellets, and a juice box she’d stolen earlier. “Only if you promise—if we get caught—we say we’re undercover party planners.” “Genius,” Bill grinned. “I’ll be ‘Benny the Balloon Bandit.’” “I’ll be ‘Lola, the Piñata Psychic.’” “Perfect. And if questioned, we blame Dave.” “Always Dave.” They inched forward—two shadows in ridiculous headgear—toward the mountain of gifts, just as a conga line of sugar-crazed children began to form. “Timing,” Bill whispered, pulling out a stopwatch. “Grace,” Molly added. “And absolutely no accepting face paint,” Bill said firmly. They dove behind the gift table as a streamer cannon exploded overhead.