The inflatable castle loomed over the petunia bushes like a neon yellow fortress of despair. Bill adjusted his clip-on bow tie, which was currently strangling his jugular, while Molly checked the structural integrity of her oversized clown shoes. They crouched behind a hydrangea, watching a pack of sugar-crazed toddlers circle a table laden with brightly wrapped rectangular treasures. The air smelled of spilled juice Boxes and impending dental appointments. Bill gripped a bag of high-grade marbles, ready to deploy them if the security detail, a golden retriever named Buster, caught their scent. Molly pulled a floor plan of the split-level ranch from her ruffled sleeve, her eyes narrowing as she calculated the trajectory of a wayward juice box. This was the big leagues. "Is the glitter bomb ready?" Bill whispered, his voice cracking with nerves. "It is primed for the cake cut," Molly replied. They waited for the rendition of Happy Birthday to reach its crescendo. As the chorus peaked, Molly signaled the advance. They would hit the toy pile before the first slice of vanilla sponge touched a paper plate. If they moved fast, they would be gone before the nap-time meltdown commenced. This was the perfect crime, provided Bill didn't trip over his own oversized polka-dot trousers.