The van smelled faintly of stale fries and desperation, a scent that had become the olfactory signature of Molly and Bill’s partnership. Molly tapped a blueprint drawn on the back of a pizza flyer with a ballpoint pen, her eyes narrowed against the midday sun. "Okay, listen up. The target enters the strike zone at 1400 hours. That's when the piñata breaks," Molly said. "I love piñatas," Bill said, hefting a baseball bat wrapped in protective foam. "It's like violence, but with candy." "Focus, Bill. While the spawn are distracted by the papier-mâché donkey's entrails, we hit the gift table. In and out. Two minutes." "What about the mother?" Bill asked. "She looks sharp. I saw her cut a cake with surgical precision." "She's a civilian. But we have the ultimate camouflage." Molly reached into the back and tossed him a garish, polka-dotted onesie. It landed on his lap with a sad flutter. "You want me to wear this?" Bill asked. "You're 'Bo-Bo the Bumbling Bear'. I'm 'Misty the Magical Mime'. No one suspects a mime. Mimes are terrifying." Bill struggled into the costume, the fabric stretching taut over his considerable frame. "I don't know, Moll. These kids... they have no honor. They bite." "That's why we have the treats," Molly said, holding up a bag of high-end chocolate. "Decoys. If things go south, throw the chocolate and run. It’s the only way to be sure." "What if they ask me to do a trick?" "You're a bear, Bill. Just growl and look cute. And whatever you do, don't let the birthday boy see your face. If a six-year-old makes you, the gig is up. They have long memories and distinctive artists' renditions." "Right. Artists." Bill looked out the window at the bouncing castle. "It's a fortress of solitude in there. Look at the bounce physics. It's treacherous terrain." "Which is why we stay on the grass. Now, check your comms." Bill pressed a finger to his ear. "Check. Can you hear me?" "Yes, and so can the neighbors. Turn the volume down." "Sorry." Molly stared at the house. A scream of joy pierced the air, followed by the chaotic thumping of tiny feet. She adjusted her imaginary beret. "Look at them. So innocent. So unburdened by debt. They don't deserve those Lego sets, Bill. They'll just step on them." "That does hurt," Bill agreed, rubbing his shin instinctively. "Exactly. We're performing a public service. We are the safety inspectors of the playroom." "Safety inspectors," Bill repeated, nodding inside the bear head. Molly killed the engine. The van shuddered into silence. "On my signal. Wait for the screaming to reach a fever pitch. That means the sugar crash is coming, and their defenses will be down." "I hate jazz," Bill muttered, tapping his foot. "It's a kid's party, Bill. They play the 'Hot Dog Song'." "Even worse." "Showtime," Molly whispered. She stepped out of the van, sliding a pair of oversized sunglasses onto her face, ready to commit grand larceny against a first-grader.