The basement smelled of forgotten board games and mildew, but Molly saw only opportunity. Spreadsheets glowed on her laptop, color-coded by gift value, estimated resale, and likelihood of containing socks. Bill, perched on a wobbly stool, adjusted his aviator sunglasses indoors, muttering about thermal drones. He’d drawn up a blueprint using crayons—"It helps me visualize the fun," he claimed—marking cake placement, piñata weak points, and optimal escape routes via inflatable slide. Molly tapped her pen like a sniper checking wind. The party was themed: *Unicorns vs. Dinosaurs: The Crossover No One Asked For*. Balloons in aggressive pastels choked the ceiling. A bouncy castle pulsed like a sleeping beast. "We go in during the cupcake revolt," she whispered, eyes sharp. "Distraction via sprinkles." Bill nodded, loading glitter bombs into a fanny pack. "Glitter never lies." "Five-minute window. In and out before the magician arrives. No heroics." "Unless I can saw a kid in half. For morale." "No." "Fine." He zipped the pack with excessive drama. They reviewed hand signals: tug ear for "cops," whistle the *Jeopardy!* theme for "snack table compromised." Molly double-checked the fake juice boxes filled with knockout serum—a generous term for heavily spiked Hi-C. Outside, a minivan played *Baby Shark* on loop, summoning the tiny overlords. "Ready?" "Born ready." They vanished into the vent system, leaving behind only a trail of footprints and a profound disrespect for nap time.