The moon hung low like a lopsided piñata as Molly crouched behind a shrub shaped suspiciously like a smiling pony. Her thermal goggles revealed the layout: a bounce house pulsing like a demented heart, tables bowed under cupcake avalanches, and gift bags stuffed so full they looked ready to give birth. Bill adjusted his reindeer antlers—part of the “innocent party guest” disguise—and accidentally elbowed a lawn gnome holding a tiny plastic shovel. It toppled with a soft *thwump*. Both froze. A distant laugh echoed. Probably just the dad doing karaoke. Molly shot him a look sharp enough to pop a balloon animal. Bill gave a sheepish thumbs-up and pulled a pair of noise-canceling earmuffs from his fanny pack—useful for suppressing toddler screams or surprise fire alarms, depending on the variable chaos coefficient. They had fifteen minutes before the human piñata exploded and sugar-fueled anarchy began. Their plan hinged on the moment the magician pulled a live bunny from a hat: misdirection, distraction, mass hysteria. Perfect cover. She unfolded a glitter-covered blueprint drawn on a napkin from last week’s failed cupcake heist. Bill pointed at the snack table with a glow stick. Molly nodded. Extraction via remote-control cake truck was risky, but the hover stroller was still in rehab after Milwaukee. “Ready?” Bill whispered. “Born ready,” Molly breathed. They synchronized their watches—both set to cartoon time. The magician raised his wand. The bunny twitched. The world held its breath. And Bill sneezed.