Molly pored over the blueprints of the suburban parents' house spread out on the low coffee table in her and Bill's hideout, a dingy basement apartment. The creaky flirtations of old wooden park benches mingled with the clickity clack of a Potbelly stove. She took a swig of whiskey and held up a blueprint for the vaulted great room with the broad bank of windows facing out over the sprawling yard. "Okay, the drop zone will be staged from here, in the game room off the kitchen. High ceilings, no line of sight from the adults, and that side door opens right out to the deck. We'll have our getaway covered." Bill hunched over her shoulder, his cheekbones stark under the dim bulb light. "I'll just spray in, grab the haul, and be out in sixty seconds flat." "Sixty seconds?" Molly snorted. "In. And. Out. Got it?" "Yeah, yeah." He snapped his fingers as he counted on them. "Splashy lingerie demo, dykes in magic tights, six seconds. Pop-Tart, four seconds. And here's the tricky leap: paratroopers, on D-Day, go shoot her twinkly brains out. Sixty seconds." Molly straightened up and pinned him with a flat look. "This is an elementary school birthday party. Why are you talking nonsense?" "I'm practicing my rap." "Well pick a different persona, poet. We'll have kindergarteners crawling all over the place. Thugs always crowd the buffet." "Right, so we prep real fast so you can hurry out with the swag." Bill mimed buckling on a rucksack. "My role, we crack through the foyer door at Shmoops time zero?" "You're reverting to Baby talk?" "Gotta play the part, tuck adjacent priorities child services." Bill produced cuff links. Molly did not speak. Bill continued, "In, balance delicate op, sixty seconds: bozos and bimbaux are both visual stacks and artillery. I'll stun through the peeled, Spreecast the flunies for delivery. Sixty seconds three minutes." "An hour, I dictate, then we flare and flee the dilapidated nuns." Molly shoved up and snapped off the stove. "Pick me up at midnight. And wear your tighty-whities. Can't have you split your suit, darling." Bill rolled his eyes and flopped on the bench, plastic crunching under his thighs sluing up to his eyes. He hunched into a line, smacking on the buffer flies after throwing the last Truffleuffle and sihouetted her in handless bitter shutters, lobing a half-chummed bottle at the rabiding stove. Sheit, how did he get sogged in this drek? Maybe his lonely crimes could temper the exec situations. Old Baldori, what a vampire.