"Bill, we're hitting the Pemberton kid's birthday party Saturday." "A children's party? Molly, have you lost your mind?" "Listen, rich neighborhood, all those presents piled up in one room. Electronics, cash cards, designer toys—" "It's a party for seven-year-olds!" "Exactly. No security system. Parents drinking mimosas on the patio. Kids screaming everywhere. Perfect cover." "What's our entry point?" "Bounce house. We go in through the rental company jumpsuit disguise, pretend we're checking the air pressure." "Nobody checks air pressure mid-party." "These helicopter parents will buy anything safety-related. Trust me." "And the getaway?" "Ice cream truck. Already rented it. Kids chase ice cream trucks, Bill. Built-in distraction." "This is insane. What if someone recognizes us?" "At a kids' party? Please. Adults barely look at each other. They're too busy making sure little Jayden doesn't eat gluten." "I don't know, Molly..." "Three grand in presents, minimum. Maybe more if the Weatherbys show up. They always overcompensate." "Fine. But I'm not wearing a clown nose." "Deal. But you're driving the ice cream truck." "Those things play music, Molly. Loudly." "That's the point, Bill. That's the whole point." Bill sighed, already regretting everything.