Molly crouched behind a dumpster shaped like a smiling penguin, its cheerful beak chipped and ominous in the moonlight. She unfurled a glitter-covered blueprint across the pavement, secured at the corners with gummy worms. Bill adjusted his black ski mask, which instantly became glued to his face thanks to a stray smear of cake frosting. He peeled it off slowly, leaving a pink residue and one very confused eyebrow. The target: Trevor’s 7th Birthday Bash, themed “Underwater Adventure with Captain Barnaclebeard.” Balloons bobbed like jellyfish in the breeze. Streamers dangled like kelp. Inside, a unicorn piñata wept confetti into a plastic treasure chest. Molly pointed to the back patio, where a motion-activated shark sprinkler dozed quietly. “We go in during the limbo contest. Maximum distraction. Also, people in sequined leotards cannot run.” Bill nodded, chewing on a stolen party favor. “Distraction via awkward dance. Got it. What about the guard?” “Only one,” Molly whispered. “Greg. Hired security. Age nine. Wears a cardboard helmet and wields a foam trident. Low threat, high enthusiasm.” They synchronized their watches—both set fifteen minutes fast for tactical superiority. Bill strapped a glitter-proof poncho over his trench coat. Molly loaded her sack: inflatable dolphin, noise-canceling earmuffs (for post-party sibling meltdowns), and a vial of calming lavender spray (for herself). At precisely 7:58 PM, the disco ball lit up and a tinny voice yelled, “How low can you go?” Molly grinned. “Showtime.” “Wait,” Bill said. “Do I get a cool code name?” “No.”