The van idled behind the dumpster of Chuckles the Clown Emporium, a flickering neon smile casting jaundiced light across Molly’s clipboard and Bill’s rapidly souring expression. “Let me get this straight,” Bill said, scratching his stubble. “We’re breaking into a kids’ birthday party. Not a bank. Not a jewelry store. A place where the security is probably a guy in footie pajamas and a juice box.” “Exactly,” Molly replied, tapping her pen. “No alarms, no guards, just balloons, cake, and piles of unattended loot. It’s genius. They’ll be distracted by the piñata. We sneak in the back during the ‘Pin the Tail’ debacle. Maximum chaos, minimum witnesses.” “Kids scream like geese when they’re startled. Ever try hot-wiring a minivan with your heart in your throat because a five-year-old saw you behind a bounce castle?” “Then be quiet. Wear the costume.” “The *what*?” “The panda suit. We discussed this.” “I thought you were joking! We’re not robbing the zoo.” “It’s festive. Low suspicion. You’ll blend right in.” “I’ll look ridiculous.” “Better ridiculous than recognizable. Besides, you’ve got the posture for it. Slouchy. Depressed-looking. Very panda.” “I hate you sometimes.” “You love me. Now, the gifts. They’ll be in a pile near the snack table. Probably wrapped in glitter glue and dinosaur paper. We grab them, toss ‘em in the sack, and out via the fire exit by the ball pit. Simple.” “Simple? Molly, the ball pit is *filled* with kids.” “We wait till they’re doing the ‘Hokey Pokey.’ Everyone’s arms are out, no one’s looking. That’s our window.” “You’re basing this on *interpretive dance* timing?” “It’s solid. Look, I’ve studied the patterns. Parents are on cake duty, which means three slices in, they’re half-zombie. The clown’s allergic to balloons, so he’ll be sneaking outside for antihistamines. And the magician? He’ll be stuck freeing a dove from a kid’s underpants. It’s the perfect crime.” “Crime? Molly, it’s a *teensy birthday*.” “It’s capitalism, Bill. The rich five-year-olds get ten presents. The poor ones get none. We’re redistributing joy. Call it Robin Hood, toddler edition.” “Robin Hood didn’t wear panda suits.” “No, but he did rob from parties. Probably.” “How do you know that?” “I made it up. But it sounds right.” “Great. So I’m a panda, you’re going as a squirrel—” “The theme is ‘Jungle Jamboree.’ Squirrels are jungle-adjacent.” “Squirrels don’t even live in jungles!” “Details, Bill. Focus. You get the sack. I get the distractions.” “What distraction?” “I’ll trip and spill punch on the cake. Classic misdirection.” “And what if someone *helps* you up?” “Then I flirt a little. Works every time.” “You can’t flirt at a children’s party!” “Watch me. I’ve charmed bouncers, cops, and my parole officer. A sugar-rushed dad? Please.” “And when they see the panda dragging a burlap sack full of Paw Patrol toys?” “You worry too much. Also, no burlap. We’re using a stroller. Less suspicious.” “You stole a stroller?” “It’s borrowed. From the park. It’ll be fine.” “This plan hinges on a borrowed stroller, a fake medical emergency involving punch, and me pretending to be a melancholy panda?” “Yup.” “And we’re doing this for how much?” “Two hundred bucks’ worth of toys, tops.” “Molly, we could rob a vending machine and make more.” “But where’s the fun in that?” She grinned, zipping up her squirrel tail. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to steal from a piñata.”