Bill lowered the high-powered binoculars, a grim expression on his face. The target zone was a chaotic battlefield of primary colours and shrieking. A bouncy castle heaved like a great, vinyl lung in the centre of the yard, defended by a squadron of sugar-crazed seven-year-olds. Inside their van, Molly ignored the din, tracing a finger over a laminated, hand-drawn map of "Chateau Birthday." Red marker circled weak points: the unsupervised juice box station, the back gate with the faulty latch. She tapped a location marked THE PILE. “The face-painter is our five-minute window for asset acquisition.” Bill’s stomach rumbled audibly. “Right. Do you think they have those little hot dogs?” Molly’s glare could have melted steel. “Focus.” He nodded solemnly, raising the binoculars again. His professional gaze, however, drifted immediately past the formidable pile of brightly-wrapped presents and settled on the three-tiered cake, a fortress of pure fondant and buttercream that would have to be neutralized. It was a secondary objective, but Bill considered it essential to the mission’s success. He licked his lips, readjusting his focus. The mission always came first. Mostly.