Molly smoothed the crinkled diagram—a child’s birthday invitation—across the getaway car’s hood. The glittery unicorn seemed to mock her. She tapped a nail on the “2:00 PM” start time. Bill, meanwhile, practiced his stealth crouch behind a minivan, a move that looked like a duck attempting to squat. The target, a suburban backyard, was deceptively simple. A single slide, a suspiciously well-decorated picnic table, and the primary obstacle: a bouncy castle shaped like a tyrannosaurus rex. It loomed, a wobbly, green monstrosity of squeaking plastic and certain doom. Molly sighed, already regretting this "easy score." "Remember the plan," she whispered. "We hit the gift table during the piñata chaos. Minimal visibility, maximum auditory cover." "But what about the T-Rex castle?" Bill hissed back. "The structural integrity is questionable. One wrong move and we’re exposed, bouncing like lottery balls." "We are not going near the castle, Bill. It’s a death trap." "We need a contingency! What if a child sees us?" "Distract them with juice boxes." "Right. And what if the presents are wrapped in that noisy crinkly paper? The sound will give us away." "Then we move silently. Like ninjas. Or, you know, adults who don't want to get arrested by a six-year-old."