The sun beat down on the suburban cul-de-sac, reflecting cruelly off the chrome of Bill’s rusted hatchback. Inside the sweltering cabin, Bill struggled to adjust his tactical birthday hat, the elastic chin strap digging deep into his double chin. He squinted at the colorful chaos erupting three houses down, where a bouncy castle pulsated like a giant, nylon heart. Beside him, Molly checked the tension on her industrial-grade bubble wand. She reached into the backseat, patting a duffel bag stuffed with high-tensile gift wrap and a silenced squirt gun filled with grape soda. The target was a mountain of primary-colored boxes currently unguarded near the hibiscus bushes. Bill wiped sweat from his brow, his fingers trembling over a map hand-drawn in orange crayon. He looked at the swarming mob of hyperactive toddlers and felt his resolve waver against the impending wall of sticky fingers. Is the cake a distraction? Bill whispered. Molly checked her watch. It is the primary objective. She kicked the car door open, her sneakers silent on the asphalt. They moved with the frantic urgency of squirrels, shadows dancing between minivans. Success depended entirely on their ability to blend into the sea of polo shirts and madness.