Molly slammed her palm against the laminated floor plan of the bouncy castle. It was a fortress of inflatable vinyl, guarded by the most ruthless security detail known to man: suburban parents and a clown named Giggles. Bill adjusted his tactical turtleneck, sweat beading on his forehead as he studied the perimeter. They weren't hitting a bank vault; this was the jagged edge of criminal enterprise. The target was the Johnson birthday bash, specifically the pile of gift-wrapped contraband sitting on the picnic table, likely containing walkie-talkies and expensive slime kits. Bill pointed a trembling finger at the diagram. Is the clown armed? Molly nodded gravely. Balloon animals. Sharp ones. Bill looked skeptical. The plan relied entirely on the sugar crash hitting the six-year-olds at exactly three o’clock. If the cake was delayed, they would be swarmed by sticky fingers and high-pitched shrieks. He checked his watch. They had specialized equipment: a bubble gun for suppression fire and noise-canceling headphones. Stealing unmatched socks was amateur hour, but snatching a Lego Death Star from a birthday boy required precision. And the sugar crash? Yes. Scheduled for three, Molly confirmed. Then let's steal fun.