The attic smelled of mothballs and forgotten board games when Molly poked her head through the pull-down ladder, flashlight clenched between her teeth like a cigar. Bill was already sprawled on the floor, elbow-deep in a box labeled “Xmas ‘09 – DO NOT OPEN (Seriously, Dave).” “You realize,” Molly said, dropping down with a thud, “that we are about to commit grand larceny against six-year-olds.” Bill didn’t look up. “They won’t miss it. Kids get, like, eighteen presents. We’re just redistributing the wealth.” “Redistributing? Bill, we’re stealing from a birthday party for a kid named Timmy who loves dinosaurs and finger paint.” “And balloon animals,” Bill added, pulling out a faded blueprint of the party venue—a rented community center called “Giggle Grove.” “Which is why we strike during the magic show. Peak distraction.” Molly squinted at the blueprint. “You mapped this during parent-toddler yoga?” “I brought a clipboard. Looked official. Also, I did a downward dog. My back’s never been better.” She sighed and sat cross-legged, nudging aside a deflated beach ball. “Alright, what’s Operation T-Rex Takeaway?” Bill straightened, suddenly animated. “Phase one: infiltrate as clown staff. I’m Bubbles. You’re Sparkles.” “No.” “Yes. You’ll wear the rainbow wig, the oversized shoes—” “I will not wear the rainbow wig.” “You will if you want inside. They’re hiring last-minute after ‘Zippy the Untrustworthy’ got arrested for juggling live ferrets.” Molly blinked. “That’s a real thing?” “Police report, Section 5: Ferrets were neither consenting nor insured.” Bill grinned. “We inherit the clown void.” She stared at him. “We’re stealing from children, dressed as clowns, during a magic act.” “Exactly. It’s poetic.” “What’s the exit strategy?” “Same as every great heist—distraction, misdirection, and a suspiciously large diaper bag.” Molly narrowed her eyes. “The diaper bag’s real, isn’t it?” “Bought it at Buy-Mart. Holds twelve pizza boxes or, hypothetically, eight unopened LEGO sets.” “And the getaway?” “Tricycle rickshaw. Kids won’t suspect a thing.” “A tricycle rickshaw?” “It seats four, has a banana seat, and blends in perfectly at a children’s party. Also, it’s powered by pedaling and regret.” Molly rubbed her temples. “And the loot?” “Divided evenly. You get the electronics. I take the candy.” “You’re not stealing a piñata.” “It’s chocolate-filled! With sprinkles!” “No. We’re not doing this for sprinkles, Bill. We’re doing it because the birthday boy’s father is Nigel Crump, tax evader, landlord of seven condemned buildings, and—get this—owns a solid gold toilet brush.” Molly pulled out a glossy photo: Crump smirking beside a glittering toilet accessory. Bill gasped. “That’s art.” “It’s also our retirement. But first, we take the presents, sell the lot on the dark web under ‘Rare Unopened Children’s Gifts,’ and use the cash to track down the brush. It’s a statement.” Bill wiped a mock tear. “From humble balloon animals to golden hygiene. I’m inspired.” “One last thing,” Molly said. “If we get caught?” Bill straightened his imaginary bowtie. “We claim it’s performance art. ‘The Illusion of Capitalism.’ Audience participation encouraged.” Molly stood, brushing dust off her jeans. “Let’s go steal some joy.” “With flair,” Bill added, folding the blueprint with suspicious precision. And somewhere, Timmy dreamed of volcanoes and surprise ponies—completely unaware his birthday was about to get dramatically upgraded.