Molly adjusted the cheap party hat on her head, pushing a stray red curl back into place. “Alright, Bill, you got the map?” Bill patted his pocket, the sound like a muffled drum solo against his chest. He grinned, his teeth an unsettling shade of yellow-white. “Right here, Moll. Birthday boy’s got grandparents with deep pockets this year. We’re talking pony-level presents.” “You sure we can’t just intercept the delivery guy?” Molly asked, fiddling with a plastic whistle around her neck. Bill snorted. “Where’s the fun in that? Besides,” he said, tilting his head towards the enormous bouncy castle looming over the garden fence, “that thing looks ripe for a little…creative rearranging.” Molly raised an eyebrow. “You know, sometimes I question your definition of 'fun', Bill.”