The inflatable castle loomed over the petunia bushes like a neon fortress of bouncy despair. Molly adjusted her tactical goggles, which were actually just snorkel masks painted black, while Bill struggled to compress his midsection into a spandex bodysuit three sizes too small. He looked less like a cat burglar and more like a burst sausage. The distant, shrill sounds of sugar-crashing toddlers drifted toward them on the afternoon breeze, signaling that the window for their infiltration was opening. Is the distraction in place? Molly whispered. Bill patted his cargo pockets, which jingled with a suspicious amount of premium kibble. I released the ferrets near the cake table five minutes ago. Molly nodded, checking her watch. The timing was perfect; the panicked parents would be busy corralling the rodents while the duo slipped into the garage to secure the Lego sets. She unfurled a blueprint drawn entirely in scented glitter markers. The stakes were high, mostly because the party favors were rumored to include limited edition trading cards. This was the biggest score of the season, provided Bill didn’t get stuck in the dog door again. They crept forward through the hydrangeas, two shadows fueled by greed and stolen juice boxes.