Molly pressed her face against the bouncy castle, squinting through the netting at the mountain of wrapped boxes piled near the punch bowl. Inside, sugar-crazed seven-year-olds shrieked and flailed like tiny tornadoes. "This is our dumbest job yet," Bill muttered, adjusting his ridiculous clown wig. The red nose honked when he breathed too hard. "Just follow my lead," Molly said, tugging at her balloon animal apron. They'd studied the layout for weeks. The parents would be distracted by cake cutting at three-fifteen sharp. The presents sat unguarded in the corner, perfectly positioned near the back gate. Simple grab and dash. Bill's rubber chicken slipped from his oversized pants and hit the pavement with a pathetic squeak. "Smooth," Molly said. The back door opened. A harried mother emerged, frantically gesturing them inside. Molly painted on her brightest smile and grabbed her prop bag. Bill retrieved his chicken. They shuffled toward their destiny, past the inflatable slide, past the face painting station, past any remaining dignity they'd once possessed. The things they did for money. Inside, a mob of frosting-covered children turned to stare at them with unsettling intensity.