The basement of Bill’s one-room apartment smelled of stale popcorn and desperation. Crumpled blueprints of the Chuckles the Clown birthday emporium wallpapered the cinderblock walls, connected by yarn that only Bill understood. Molly sat cross-legged on a deflated air mattress, picking glitter off a stolen inflatable unicorn heist prototype. Bill crouched before a shoebox diorama of the party room, complete with action figures he’d rebranded as "hostages" and a tiny piñata made from dental floss and lint. “We go in during the magician’s act,” Bill whispered, eyes twitching. “Distraction, misdirection, maximum mayhem. Classic mis-chaos.” Molly squinted. “What if the kids scream?” “Kids always scream. It’s part of the ambiance.” He adjusted a toy fire truck labeled *DIVERSION* in Sharpie. His plan involved a fog machine powered by expired soda, a zip line made from shoelaces, and a getaway route through the ball pit into the sewer access tunnel he *assumed* existed. Molly wasn’t convinced. She’d seen Bill cry during a puppet show. “We’re stealing from toddlers,” she said. “And? They won’t miss a few Build-a-Bears. They get one every week.” He placed a tiny plastic bag at the diorama’s exit. “We only take the good stuff. No hand-knit sweaters. No kale-flavored lollipops.” Molly sighed. “Fine. But if I have to hug a clown, you owe me fifty bucks.” “Deal.”