Molly crouched behind a bush shaped suspiciously like a cartoon unicorn, binoculars pressed to her face, squinting at the inflatable slide belching rainbows in the suburban backyard. Bill fidgeted beside her, adjusting the rubber chicken tucked into his belt—“for disguise,” he’d insisted. The party was in full swing: sugar-crazed six-year-olds screamed through musical chairs while a clown named Binky juggled pies with alarming incompetence. Molly scribbled notes on a napkin: *Guard rotations: none. Distraction options: pinata (explosive potential: medium). Adult supervision: negligible (all drinking fruit punch near the T-ball set).* She glanced at Bill, who was practicing his “innocent parent smile” in a compact mirror. The plan was simple—synchronized toy theft during the limbo contest. Molly would create a commotion by pretending to be the long-lost twin of the birthday boy. Bill would sweep the gift table with a rolling suitcase disguised as a giant crayon. “We move on 'Baby Shark,'” Molly whispered, not looking at him. Bill nodded, sweat dripping onto his novelty “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt—pointing, regrettably, at himself. At exactly 3:17 p.m., the air filled with aquatic synth, and chaos erupted. Molly burst through the gate, sobbing about a tragic mix-up at the hospital. The parents gaped. Binky dropped a pie—directly onto the stereo. Bill lunged for the presents, shoving gift bags into the crayon case as confetti spilled from a ruptured one, sticking to his hair. By the time “Happy Birthday” began, the gifts were gone, Molly was halfway up a tree, and Bill was trapped inside the inflatable slide, yelling something about velcro.