Bill jabbed a sausage-like finger at the crayon drawing spread across their rickety kitchen table. The schematic, scrawled on the back of a pizza menu, detailed the layout of “Fort Birthday.” He’d marked a bouncy castle as ‘Inflatable Obstruction Alpha’ and a cluster of screaming six-year-olds as ‘Mobile Guard Patrol.’ A red circle indicated the main prize: a mountain of brightly wrapped presents. Bill adjusted his dollar-store reading glasses, his brow furrowed with the intense concentration of a man defusing a bomb, not burgling a suburban backyard. Molly sighed, popping a cheese puff into her mouth and pointed a cheesy finger at a crudely drawn donkey. “Are you sure the piñata isn't a decoy?” “Positive. The real prize is the unicorn cake. It’s filled with premium… sprinkles.” Bill traced a dotted line from the back fence, navigating past the ‘Slippery Slide of Doom’ and the ‘Clown Danger Zone.’ Their exfiltration route depended entirely on Timmy’s dad firing up the barbecue at precisely 3:15 PM, creating a smokescreen of delicious, greasy burger fumes. It was a flawless plan. Almost. He hadn't yet figured out how to neutralize the family golden retriever, 'Sir Barks-a-lot.'