Bill smoothed the crinkled invitation against the dashboard of their surveillance van, treating the glitter-covered cardstock like a classified government blueprint. Outside, the suburban lawn was a tactile minefield of plastic tricycles and discarded juice boxes. He adjusted his tactical balaclava, despite the sweltering mid-July heat, and pointed a grim finger toward the bouncy castle oscillating violently in the wind. It was the primary physical obstacle between them and the living room table, which currently groaned under the weight of aggressive pastel wrapping paper. The perimeter was patrolled by a frantic golden retriever and three visibly exhausted fathers. Molly checked the equipment bag, expertly ensuring the party poppers were fully loaded and the noise makers were primed. She looked through the binoculars at the entertainer twisting a dachshund out of pink latex. "The clown is the heavy security," Bill noted. Molly cracked her knuckles, staring at the plastic red nose. "I can definitely take him," she replied. Bill shook his head, emphasizing the specific mission parameters. "Just get the blocks, Molly," he warned. He meant the expensive Danish interlocking plastic sets, the holy grail of the toddler black market. Molly shifted into gear. One swing. One opportunity.