Molly crouched behind a potted plastic palm tree that shrieked "Surprise!" whenever someone walked by, her ski mask already askew from duck tape allergies. Beside her, Bill adjusted his tiny cowboy hat—a necessary disguise, he claimed, because “no one suspects a birthday clown with integrity.” The suburban cul-de-sac glittered with streamers and helium balloons that spelled out ‘HAPPY 5TH JAMISON!’ in aggressively cheerful fonts. A piñata shaped like a unicorn dangled like forbidden treasure. They’d scouted the house for three days. The parents hired a live llama, which Bill insisted was a psychological blind spot—“No one plans around livestock.” Molly wasn’t convinced but admired his commitment to the absurd. She unfolded a blueprint drawn on a napkin from Taco Bell, complete with escape routes through the inflatable bounce house and a proposed distraction involving a rogue magician’s disappearing act. Bill quietly removed a harmonica from his satchel. “Just in case we need to lull the toddlers into false security,” he whispered. “They’re five, Bill. Not a jury.” “But impressionable.” A squeal erupted from inside as a child discovered cake. Molly nodded. “Go. But if we’re caught, I’m blaming the llama.” They crept forward, boots silent but Bill’s foam nose squeaking with every step. The presents—neatly wrapped in dinosaur paper and princess tinsel—sat unguarded beneath a banner that read: *No Adults Allowed!* Perfect.