Molly spread the tactical blueprints across the sticky dashboard of their rusted econovan. The schematics were crude, drawn on a napkin in purple crayon she had pilfered from a diner, but they detailed the layout of the backyard perimeter perfectly. The inflatable castle was the primary choke point, a bouncy fortress of solitude guarding the gift table. Bill polished his crowbar nervously, though he mainly used it to pry open stubborn juice boxes. He stared at the beige suburban house, terrified of the chaotic, high-pitched energy radiating from the sugar-fueled toddlers swarming inside. Watch out for the clown, Molly whispered, pointing. She circled the painted entertainer with a sharp nail. He was twisting balloon animals with the intense precision of a bomb disposal expert. The enemy was formidable. I really hate clowns, Bill muttered, shivering. Molly ignored his phobia. This was the big score. The rumour on the street was that little Timmy was getting the Mega-Death-Star Lego set. It was enough to retire on, or at least buy much better sandwiches. The tension in the van was palpable, smelling faintly of fear and buttercream frosting. Just grab the Lego set, she commanded. What about the cake? Bill asked. Focus, Bill. They donned their pointy party hats, disguising themselves as overgrown, cynical relatives, and prepared to breach.