Molly crouched behind a bush, binoculars pressed to her face, whispering into a walkie-talkie, “Bill, are you seeing this? There’s a piñata shaped like a unicorn. A *unicorn*, Bill. That thing’s stuffed to the seams.” Bill, sprawled on a park bench eating a corndog he’d swiped from a nearby vendor, replied, “I’m seeing it, I’m seeing it. But Molly, we’re not here for the piñata. We’re here for the presents. The *unwrapped*, easy-to-stash loot under the snack table.” “But the piñata has *potential*,” Molly insisted, lowering the binoculars just enough to squint at him. “Kids don’t hit it right. It’s always half-full. Unicorn vibes mean premium candy. Possibly glow sticks. Glow sticks are currency now.” “Currency doesn’t pay the rent,” Bill said, licking mustard off his thumb. “Look, we go in when the magician starts his ‘magic’—which, from the sign, includes pulling a rabbit from a hat that’s clearly missing an ear. That’s our distraction. Kids will be oohing and aahing while we do the ol’ switcheroo.” “The ol’ switcheroo? That’s your plan?” Molly raised an eyebrow. “It’s foolproof.” “It’s what got us banned from the library heist.” “That librarian had no sense of humor about book returns.” Molly sighed and adjusted her backpack. “Fine. But if I see an opening to snag the piñata, I’m taking it.” “No piñatas,” Bill said firmly. “We stick to presents. Mostly gift cards. Parents don’t wrap those. They stick them in envelopes like they’re mailing a sad birthday afterthought.” “You’re weirdly passionate about gift cards.” “Because they’re *clean*. No fingerprints. No DNA. Just cold, hard data. Also, the one from the ice cream place? That’s basically cash.” “Fine, fine. So we wait for the rabbit. But what if the rabbit doesn’t cooperate?” “It’s missing an ear. It’s already traumatized. It’ll cooperate.” A high-pitched voice suddenly piped up behind them. “Are you the clowns?” Molly yelped and dropped the binoculars. Bill choked on his corndog. A small child in a dinosaur costume stood there, holding a juice box with both hands. “Uh,” Molly said, “yes. Yes, we are the clowns.” “Mom said the clowns would be late,” the kid said, squinting. “You don’t look like clowns.” “We’re the new clowns,” Bill said, standing up awkwardly. “Modern clowns. Minimal face paint. Maximum efficiency.” The kid nodded solemnly. “The magician’s about to start. You’re gonna miss your cue.” “We’ll be right there,” Molly said, forcing a smile. “Just—uh—checking the wind patterns.” The kid wandered off. Bill turned to Molly. “Wind patterns?” “For clown flight. Duh.” “Right. Anyway. Game on?” “Game on. But Bill?” “What?” “If we *do* get the piñata, promise me one thing.” “What?” “We keep the unicorn head. I’ve always wanted a mystical headdress.” “You’re impossible.” He sighed. “Fine. But only if we grab the gift cards *first*.” “Deal,” Molly whispered. “Now hide your corndog. That’s not clown behavior.” “It’s performance art,” Bill muttered, shoving the remainder into his pocket. From the party, a squeaky fanfare blared. The magician took the stage, clearing his throat. “Ladies, gentlemen, and small creatures who may or may not believe in magic—behold!” Molly grabbed Bill’s arm. “Showtime.” “Showtime,” he agreed. “And try not to hug any kids this time.” “I can’t promise anything. They’re so *huggable*.”