The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour laundromat flickered overhead as Molly spread a crumpled invitation across the folding table. "The Henderson kid's birthday party," Bill whistled low. "This is actually genius." "I know," Molly said, tapping the card. "Saturday at two o'clock. The place will be crawling with distracted parents and sugar-addled children." "So what's the play here?" Bill pulled up a plastic chair, its legs scraping against the tile floor. "We can't just waltz in with bags." Molly grinned. "We dress as clowns. Nobody questions clowns at children's parties." "Clowns?" Bill's face contorted. "Absolutely not. I have a reputation." "What reputation? You got caught stealing from a petting zoo last month." "That was a setup!" Bill protested, but Molly was already pulling up party supply websites on her phone. The glow illuminated her face as she scrolled through oversized shoes and rainbow wigs. "Look, Bill, these people are loaded. The wish list has a riding toys section." Bill leaned over her shoulder. "Is that a motorized Jeep?" "Battery-powered, child-sized, and worth six hundred dollars," Molly confirmed. "That's just one item. There's also a drone, a gaming console, and what appears to be an actual pony." "They're getting a pony as a present?" Bill's voice climbed an octave. "Apparently it's a miniature pony. We might have to rent a truck." Bill stood and paced between two rows of washing machines, their rhythmic tumbling providing an oddly soothing soundtrack to his internal crisis. Finally, he turned back to Molly. "What about the actual presents?" "All stacked in the garage according to the mother's Instagram post," Molly said, scrolling. "She's very proud of her organizational system. Color-coded by recipient. We just need distraction." "The clown thing still bothers me," Bill muttered, returning to his seat. "More than the pony situation?" Molly raised an eyebrow. "Fair point," Bill conceded. "When do we start casing the place?" "I'm already in their security camera footage. They use a basic system, really embarrassing for a house this expensive." Molly turned the phone toward him, showing an aerial view of a suburban mansion. Bill studied it carefully. "The garage entrance connects directly to the kitchen. If we time it right during cake, we could load at least half the presents." "That's why you're my partner," Molly said. "We'll need costumes though. I'm thinking sad clowns, really play up the existential dread angle." Bill groaned. "Of course you're thinking method." "It helps us blend in," Molly reasoned. "Sad clowns fit the whole uncomfortable energy of hired entertainment. Parents will actively avoid us." "Perfect," Bill sighed. "So we're really doing this." "Saturday. Two o'clock. Be ready." Bill imagined himself in oversized shoes and face paint, wheeling a motorized pony toward a getaway van. It was insane. It was ridiculous. It was absolutely the stupidest plan they'd ever attempted. It might actually work.