Molly crouched behind a bush, peering at the brightly lit house. "You really think we’re doing this? Kids’ party? We’re robbing Santa’s reject bin." Bill adjusted his ski mask. "Hey, presents add up. And nobody suspects the clown." "You’re not even dressed as a clown." "I will be. I snagged the outfit from that creepy birthday emcee. Smells like sour frosting and existential dread." "Perfect. Real subtle. What’s the plan, genius?" "I go in as the entertainment. Balloon animals, bad jokes, chaos. You sneak through the back when the cake comes out." "And if someone notices me?" "Tell ‘em you’re with Child Protective Services. Or the ice cream truck. People stop asking questions when ice cream’s involved." "What if a kid sees me?" "Offer ‘em a lollipop and whisper, 'Say nothing, or the unicorn dies.'" "That’s horrifying." "So’s a sugar crash at 8 p.m. Are you in or not?" Molly sighed. "Only if we leave a single gift. For the birthday kid. Call it… redemption." "Fine. One sad little present. The rest are ours. And listen—no stealing the piñata. Last time you got hit in the face with a donkey." "That donkey had it coming." Bill stood, pulling on floppy shoes. "Showtime. Remember: we’re not monsters. We’re *strategic gift re-allocators*." "Sure. And I’m the Queen of England." "Close. You’re the queen of stolen party favors."