Molly traced a finger along the greasy napkin, a crude blueprint for their infiltration of the bouncy castle. Beyond the van’s grimy windshield, the scene was pure suburban chaos: shrieking children, a wilting balloon arch, and a clown whose smile seemed painted on with desperation. Her partner, Bill, had abandoned lookout duties. He wasn't clocking the parents or timing the clown’s smoke breaks; his military-grade binoculars were trained on the dessert table. "Do you think they have Funfetti cake?" he breathed, a hopeful glint in his eye. Molly didn’t look up from her drawing. "Focus. The target is the present pile, not the pantry." A pathetic sigh escaped him. "But Funfetti, Molly." She finally met his pleading gaze, her own expression withering. "Bill." He deflated, turning to adjust his bristly, oversized mustache in the rearview mirror. Outside, the clown honked a desolate note on a tiny horn. This was going to be a long, sugar-fueled afternoon, and the odds of success were plummeting with every imagined sprinkle. He just hoped they'd leave a few of the corner pieces with extra frosting.