The blueprints were spread across the hood of Bill’s battered sedan, held down at the corners by empty coffee cups and a half-eaten bag of cheese puffs. Molly tapped a gloved finger on a diagram of the Johnson residence, specifically the sprawling, inflatable bouncy castle in the backyard. “Okay, the primary objective is the gift table,” she said, her voice a low, serious whisper that was entirely at odds with the My Little Pony keychain dangling from her belt loop. “According to my intel, it’s positioned against the fence, just behind the ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey’ station. Minimal parental supervision. The adults are clustered near the grill, discussing mortgage rates and the inherent disappointment of their children.” Bill peered over the blueprint, a smear of orange cheese dust on his chin. “And the security detail? The kid, Timmy, has a reputation. They call him ‘The Scream.’” Molly nodded grimly. “The Scream is our biggest variable. His auditory capabilities can shatter glass and morale. We need a diversion. Something big, something loud, something that will draw every eye in that yard for at least ninety seconds.” Bill’s face lit up with a genius that was frankly alarming. “I’ve got just the thing. I’ve been modifying the sprinkler system.” “Bill, no. We talked about this. No water-based chaos.” “Not water, Mol. Not this time. Bubbles. Industrial-strength, non-toxic, hyper-reflective bubbles. A single activation will turn that entire backyard into a shimmering, frothy wonderland. The kids will lose their tiny minds. They’ll be chasing them for hours.” Molly considered this. A bubble apocalypse. It was brilliant in its sheer, ridiculous simplicity. “Okay, Bubble Protocol is a go. You trigger the deluge, I make the grab. We need to be in and out before the first parent realizes a Frozen-themed tea set is missing.” “Right,” Bill said, already checking his watch. “The party starts at two. We give them an hour to get complacent, to believe their fortress of fun is impenetrable. At 15:00 hours, we execute. Our window is precisely two minutes and seventeen seconds. That’s the average time it takes for Mrs. Johnson to refetch the hummus dip from the kitchen.” “Then we rendezvous at the extraction point,” Molly finished, rolling up the blueprint. “The slide. The big purple one. We go down it like conquering heroes, presents in tow. Operation: Birthday Bash is a go.” Bill saluted, a stray cheese puff falling from his hair. “Let’s go steal some happiness.”