The glow of a single bare bulb dangled over the cluttered kitchen table, illuminating a hand-drawn map of the Johnson family’s split-level ranch home. Molly tapped a red fingernail on the garage entry, her eyes sharp behind cat-eye glasses that had seen better decades. Bill, slouched in a plastic lawn chair with one leg shorter than the others, crunched on a cold french fry he’d found in his coat pocket. “Kid’s party. Twelve p.m. Saturday. Clowns, cake, and approximately seventeen unattended gift bags wrapped in dinosaur paper,” Molly said, ticking off points on her fingers. “We strike during the piñata. Distraction at its finest. Pure anarchy with candy.” Bill chewed slowly. “You ever been to a kids’ birthday?” “No. Too loud. Also, emotional.” “I went to my nephew’s last year. There was a guy dressed as a purple gorilla riding a trike while setting things on fire. Legitimately. With a flamethrower. It was part of the act.” Molly blinked. “Was the house insured?” “Wasn’t his house.” She leaned back, arms crossed. “Fine. We’ll assume maximum chaos. But Bill, if you start crying because some toddler says ‘I wuv you,’ I’m leaving you behind with the cops and a kazoo.” “I cried at *Frozen*,” he admitted. “But only the part where the sled goes into the mist.” “Noted. Emotional susceptibility: high.” The plan, scrawled in red ink across the back of a pizza coupon, involved Bill impersonating a backup clown named Bubbles—“because no one suspects the second-tier clown”—while Molly slipped in through the doggy door (which, according to her binocular reconnaissance, remained unlocked “due to sheer parental negligence”). “I don’t know how to balloon animals,” Bill said, frowning at a photo of a dog-shaped balloon. “You don’t have to. Just stand there. Look confused. Hand out slightly deflated balloons. Nobody pays attention to sad clowns. It’s a psychological blind spot.” “And you’ll be in the den, grabbing the loot?” “While you distract them with whatever melancholy clown aura you naturally emit. Then I signal with the Baby Shark ringtone.” “What if they’re playing Baby Shark already?” Molly paused. Then snapped her fingers. “Then I hum *Never Gonna Give You Up*. That’ll be our backup cue.” Bill nodded. “You think the presents are worth it?” “Minimum twenty bucks a gift. Eighteen kids. That’s—” “Three hundred and sixty dollars.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re good at math when snacks aren’t involved.” “I once counted every sprinkle on a donut. There were 1,842. It was a slow Tuesday.” They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their impending crime pressing gently against the linoleum. “You ever feel weird stealing from kids?” Bill asked, voice low. Molly sipped her lukewarm tea. “We’re not stealing *from* the kids. We’re liberating gifts from the economic pressures of performative generosity. It’s social commentary.” “With a getaway scooter.” “A *quiet* getaway scooter. And flame decals.” Bill sighed. “I still think we should leave one present. For moral balance.” “Fine. We’ll leave the hand-knit sock monkey. But only because it’s cursed.” “It’s that creepy, huh?” Molly nodded. “The eyes follow you. I watched it from across the street. Twice.” Bill shuddered. “You’re messing with me.” “No. Also, the dad owns six lawn gnomes that are definitely communicating.” “…Are we still doing this?” “Yes.” “Cool. Can I keep the clown shoes?”