The inflatable castle wobbled precariously as Bill adjusted his tactical diaper bag. He squinted through the hedges, watching a squadron of sugar-crazed toddlers stampede toward a mountain of brightly wrapped boxes near the lemonade fountain. The primary objective sat atop the pile: a box shaped suspiciously like a professional-grade drone. Molly checked the tension on her grappling hook, which was currently fashioned from a plastic pink skipping rope and a heavy-duty tent peg. She nudged Bill, gesturing toward the clown who was distracted by a balloon animal catastrophe involving a poodle and a very sharp nose. This was their only window before the cake-cutting ceremony triggered total anarchy. We go on the juice box signal, Molly whispered. Bill nodded, his face smeared with camouflage face paint that smelled faintly of strawberry jam. He gripped a canister of concentrated bubble solution, ready to create a slippery diversion on the patio tiles. They had studied the patrol patterns of the Golden Retriever for weeks, noting its weakness for discarded ham sandwiches. The perimeter was clear, the bounce house was full, and the loot was ripe for the taking. Whatever you do, don't step on a Lego, Bill warned. Molly rolled her eyes and signaled the advance.