Molly crouched behind a shrub, binoculars pressed to her eyes, staring at the clown inflating a poodle-shaped balloon with his face. “You said it was a corporate retreat,” she hissed. “It *is* a corporate retreat,” Bill whispered back, adjusting his fake mustache. “For Clowns ‘R’ Us. Look at that guy—he’s got a name tag that says ‘Bubbles, Certified Chuckler.’” “This isn’t a high-value target, Bill. We’re talking glitter bombs and Build-A-Bear gift cards.” “Listen, last year the average child in this ZIP code received 4.7 presents totaling $173.41 in retail value. That’s *seventeen thousand* dollars’ worth of loot for fifty kids. And do you know what they do with all that loot? Put it in a bouncy castle until naptime.” Molly lowered the binoculars. “You did *math*?” “Budget planning,” he said proudly. “Also, I checked the bounce ratio. That castle can hold 1,200 pounds. We can stuff everything in there, drag it out the back, and nobody notices until the magician pulls a live ferret out of someone’s underwear.” “The ferret’s part of the act, right?” “Hopefully. But more importantly, the parents are distracted. They’re either arguing about whose turn it is to refill the nachos or crying in the porta-potty. It’s chaos. Perfect chaos.” Molly squinted. “You want us to steal from toddlers?” “They’re not *toddlers*, they’re asset holders.” “Same thing with smaller shoes.” Bill clapped his hands. “Look—the piñata’s down. Candy’s on the floor. Everyone’s stampeding. Distraction level: maximum.” “You’ve been waiting to say ‘distraction level: maximum,’ haven’t you?” “I’ve had it ready since Tuesday.” Molly sighed. “Fine. We go in during the cake singing. But we leave the unicorn piñata. I saw a kid hugging it earlier. He was *whispering* to it.” “Sentimental value doesn’t pay the electric bill, Molly.” “It *should*,” she muttered. They inched forward, dressed as caterers. Bill wore an apron that read “I Flip For Cupcakes.” Molly carried a serving tray stacked with empty punch cups. “I still don’t get why we couldn’t just rob a jewelry store,” she said. “Because jewels are tracked. Gift receipts? Not so much. And have you *seen* the loot in that gift mountain? Xboxes, drones, one glittery saxophone?” “A saxophone?” “Kid wanted to be in a punk jazz band.” “…Fair.” They reached the party tent. A banner read “Happy Birthday, Timmy!! You’re 7!! (And Also Special!!!)” Bill scanned the room. “Okay, Phase One: cake delay.” Molly frowned. “We’re delaying cake?” “Gives us time. Just trip the DJ.” “Bill—” “Do it for the mission.” She sighed, stepped toward the music stand, and casually yanked the power cord. The music cut out. A child screamed, “NOOOO! THE DAB ISN’T DONE!” Bill seized the moment. “Fire drill!” he yelled in his best camp counselor voice. “Everyone, line up by the sprinklers!” Parents looked confused, but kids stampeded toward the fake sprinkler exhibit. Molly hissed, “They’re not real!” “They don’t have to know that.” While the crowd diverted, they dashed to the gift pile. Bill started stuffing presents into a bouncy castle access panel. “Look! A telescope! This kid wants to find Saturn!” “More like we are,” Molly said, tugging out a giant LEGO set. “This thing weighs twelve pounds.” “Worth twelve pounds of crime.” A voice piped up behind them. “Are you guys giving presents to the castle?” They froze. It was Timmy. Holding a cupcake. And a kazoo. Bill smiled. “Uh. Yes. The castle… loves presents. Very polite.” Timmy nodded. “Okay. Can I put my glow-in-the-dark slime in too? It’s for the castle’s birthday.” Molly looked at Bill. He shrugged. “Sure,” she said softly. “For the castle.”