Molly adjusted her ski mask in the rearview mirror. “You sure this is the right house? Looks like a piñata exploded in the yard.” Bill craned his neck at the rainbow streamers and a life-sized foam banana mascot slumped by the mailbox. “Definitely the one. Rich aunt’s kid’s birthday. Clown included. Clown means chaos. Chaos is our entry.” “Clown’s a liability! What if he recognizes us?” “He’s paid in pizza coupons, Molly. He won’t remember his own name.” “Still—kids, Bill! We’re robbing toddlers.” “Toddlers with trust funds. That bouncy castle probably costs more than our getaway go-kart.” “It’s not a go-kart, it’s a borrowed—” “Stolen lawn mower with streamers. Semantics. Now, plan: I distract with the kazoo, you sneak in through the ball pit.” “The ball pit? That thing’s a death trap. Last time I went in one, I lost an earring and my dignity.” “This time you’ll lose dignity *and* twenty-seven wrapped presents.” “What if they have a unicorn? Real or inflatable, I’m not dealing with that.” “Unicorns hate shiny things. Just don’t wear the tiara.” “I’m wearing the tiara. It’s part of my tactical aesthetic.” “Fine. But no singing ‘Happy Birthday’ when you’re stuffing loot into the diaper bag.” “Only if you promise not to join the limbo contest.” “...How low do you think I’ll go for a cover story?” “Real low, Bill. Real, real low.”