The inflatable castle bloated with air in the driveway, a nylon monument to suburban excess. Bill adjusted his clown nose, which kept whistling every time he exhaled in frustration. He tapped the clipboard, his brow furrowed as he studied the perimeter of the juice box station and the chaotic movements of thirty toddlers in sugar-induced frenzies. It was a tactical nightmare of sticky fingers and high-pitched screams. Molly tightened the laces on her oversized neon shoes, checking the hidden compartment in her polka-dot vest where the lockpicks were stashed. She stared at the mountain of brightly wrapped boxes towering on the gift table, her eyes gleaming with professional greed. The duo crouched behind a manicured boxwood hedge, smelling faintly of greasepaint and desperation. Get the bouncy house keys, Bill whispered. Molly adjusted her wig. Watch for the clown. They moved toward the garage, blending into the colorful madness. Bill palmed a smoke bomb disguised as a stress ball while Molly scanned for the birthday boy’s mother. The plan required precision, timing, and a complete lack of dignity. If they survived the nap-time transition, the loot would be theirs. For now, they were just two performers waiting for the balloon animals to provide the ultimate distraction.