The alley behind Happy Tots Party Palace smelled faintly of bubblegum and existential dread. Molly crouched behind a dumpster plastered with peeling unicorn stickers, her black ski mask already askew and revealing a stubborn curl of auburn hair. She adjusted the strap of her duffel bag—emblazoned with a smiling dinosaur saying “I Brake for Cake!”—and flipped open a crumpled floor plan drawn on the back of a pizza menu. Bill, meanwhile, was having an identity crisis in a mascot costume. “I look like rejected breakfast cereal,” he muttered, tugging at the fuzzy yellow onesie of Bounce-Bot, the party’s official dancing robot. The headpiece had one dead eye and a faint odor of old cheese. “This thing itches. And I can’t see. Is that a child?” “That’s a mop bucket,” Molly said without looking up. “And you’re staying in character. We need access. You’re our golden ticket, Bouncy.” “I’m not bouncing anywhere until I get hazard pay. This suit’s haunted. I felt something twitch.” “You’re twitching. Now focus. We’ve got ten minutes before the piñata parade. You lead the kids outside with the ‘Surprise Dance-Off Challenge,’ I slip in through the supply closet, swap the presents with inflatable pool toys from the discount bin, and—” “And we vanish like last year’s birthday boy’s belief in Santa,” Bill finished, nodding. Then paused. “Wait. Why are we stealing kids’ presents again?” “Because adults expect security. Kids expect cake. No one sees us coming.” “That’s either genius or deeply immoral. Possibly both.” Bill poked at the ear of his costume. “Also, Bounce-Bot is supposed to be mute. How am I supposed to lead a dance-off without speaking?” “Use jazz hands. Mime a fire. Children speak interpretive panic.” A shrill squeal echoed from inside the building, followed by the unmistakable synth beat of “Baby Shark.” Molly winced. “Showtime. Remember: you’re a robot who’s just heard the call of the wild. Or, you know, the call of the dance floor.” Bill waddled toward the side door, tripping slightly on the oversized feet. “I still think we should’ve gone after the dentist’s office like last time. At least toothbrushes have resale value.” “And one more thing,” Molly called after him. “If you start doing the robot, I’m leaving you here.” “The robot’s my signature move!” “That’s the problem.” Inside, the party raged—streamers like confetti from a rainbow explosion, kids sprinting in every direction as if fleeing a tiny, sugar-fueled apocalypse. Bill emerged from the hall like a malfunctioning beacon of joy, arms jerking upward in stiff robot motions. Children gasped, then cheered. A man in a tie-dye shirt and balloon animal hat waved. “Bounce-Bot’s here! Time to shake it!” Bill panicked and began to dance—half robot, half man possessed by a washing machine. He pointed at the back door and mimed “follow me” with tragic enthusiasm. “What’s he doing?” Molly whispered as she crept through the supply closet window, ducking under a rack of party hats. “No idea. But it’s working. Kids are stampeding.” Sure enough, the entire party stampeded outside, drawn by Bounce-Bot’s erratic performance. Molly moved fast—rifling through gift bags, untying ribbons, shoving Hot Wheels, glitter slime, and LEGO sets into her dino duffel. She replaced each with a sad-looking inflatable cactus and a note: *Sorry. Criminal priorities.* Bill, now outside, attempted a backflip. The costume’s knees buckled. He collapsed like a surprised giraffe. “Stay down!” Molly hissed as she zipped the bag and slid back through the window. “You said ten minutes!” Bill wheezed, rolling onto his back. “I said ten minutes or less. It’s been nine.” “With style, clearly.” Molly grabbed the duffel and extended a hand. “Come on, Bounce-Bot. The night’s young. And we’ve still got to fence a hundred glow-in-the-dark yo-yos.” Bill groaned. “I hate this job.” “No, you don’t.” She smiled. “You love the yo-yos.”