The gravel crunched under Bill’s boots as he pace-shuffled around their windowless van, clutching a clipboard like it was the Holy Grail. He was wearing a tactical vest over a sweater vest, a choice Molly found deeply troubling. She was too busy gluing sequins to a pair of oversized foam ears to give him the full scrutiny he deserved. Is the bouncy castle confirmed? Bill whispered, despite being in an empty alleyway. It’s confirmed, Bill. It arrives at noon. I’m going in as the balloon animal specialist, Molly said, checking her reflection in a side mirror. Do I look like I know how to make a poodle? You look like a cat-burglar who lost a fight with a craft store. Which is perfect. Listen, the intel says the payload is concentrated on the mahogany sideboard in the sunroom. We’re talking LEGO sets, remote-controlled drones, and at least three envelopes that probably contain crisp fifty-dollar bills from grandparents who forgot to buy a gift. Molly paused, pointing a hot-glue gun at him. And the cake? The cake is a diversion, Molly. Focus. We have a four-minute window between the singing of Happy Birthday and the arrival of the pizza guy. That’s when the sugary chaos hits its peak. The parents will be distracted by the inevitable vomiting of the Henderson twins. That’s our opening. I’m telling you, Bill, the cake is part of the escape plan. If I smear enough frosting on the floor by the exit, no one can chase us. It’s basic physics. Bill sighed, scribbling frantically on his clipboard. Fine. Tactical frosting is authorized. But what about the Target? The Target was a literal golden retriever wearing a party hat, currently patrolling the backyard of the target residence. The dog is a pushover, Molly said, tossing a sequin. I’ve got high-grade organic beef jerky hidden in my oversized clown shoes. I’ll have him signing over his house by one o’clock. Good. Now, the juice box situation. What about it? They’re sticky, Molly. If we get grape juice on the LEGO boxes, the resale value plummets on the dark web. We need to be surgical. These are six-year-olds we’re dealing with. They have no peripheral vision, but they can smell fear and artificial dyes. I’m not afraid of a pack of toddlers, Bill. I once robbed a billionaire during his own heart surgery. A billionaire doesn't have a plastic lightsaber and a total lack of impulse control, Bill retorted, adjusting his goggles. One wrong move and we’re buried in a ball pit until the cops show up. Molly snapped her foam ears into place and grabbed her bag of balloons. Just get the van running. If I’m not out by the time they start the piñata, I’ve been compromised. Godspeed, Bill whispered, tapping his earpiece. And Molly? Don't get distracted by the goodie bags. Molly froze, her hand on the van door. No promises, Bill. I heard they have the holographic dinosaur stickers.