Molly jabbed a finger at the crumpled blueprint spread across the coffee table. The paper smelled faintly of pizza and regret. A large red circle was drawn around a smiling cartoon sun. “This is the problem,” she said, her voice a low, serious hum. “The bouncy castle.” “It looks fun,” Bill offered, peering over her shoulder. “We could bounce our way in. Incognito.” “Nobody bounces incognito, Bill. It’s blocking the primary ingress point: the patio doors. According to my surveillance, it’s inflated at 1:00 p.m. sharp.” “Ooh, surveillance. Did you use the binoculars again?” “I have a system,” Molly snapped, ignoring him. She pointed to a squiggly line. “The cake is served at three. We hit during the post-cake sugar crash. Lethargy is our ally. I’ve calculated a seven-minute window between the last slice being eaten and the start of the musical statues.” “I still think my clown idea has legs.” Molly closed her eyes for a long, painful moment. “We are not using the clown suit.” “But think about it! A sad clown. I wander in, juggling badly. The kids feel pity. The parents are distracted by the existential dread I’m projecting. You slip in, grab the loot.” “They’d call a therapist,” she said flatly. “My plan is surgical. You are going in as a disgruntled balloon animal artist.” “Disgruntled? Can’t I be a cheerful one?” “No. You’ve tragically run out of balloons. You mill about near the gift table, looking morose. The moment they start singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to little Timothy, the parental units will be distracted. That’s your go-signal.” Bill stroked his chin. “And the presents? What are we looking at? The intel was vague.” “The intel was a party invitation you stole from a first-grader’s backpack, Bill. It mentions ‘fun and games.’ Assume Lego. Maybe a remote-control car. High-value, low-volume.” “Did it mention a Galactic Ranger Action Fortress? With the functioning laser-crane?” “It did not.” Molly folded the blueprint with sharp, aggressive creases. “You get to the gift table. You swap our empty bags for their full ones. You do not make eye contact with the magician. He’s ex-carnival folk. He’ll spot you a mile away.” “Right. Got it. So I’m a sad, balloon-less artist lurking by the presents.” “Exactly.” “And you’ll be where?” “I’ll be disabling the party poppers. They’re a sonic hazard we can’t afford.”