Molly spread the crayon-drawn map across the diner table, careful not to smudge the sticky syrup residue. Bill squinted at the colorful scribbles, his weathered face contorting with concentration. "Is that supposed to be the house or a diseased potato?" Bill asked, tilting his head sideways. "It's clearly the house. See? Windows here, door there, and this purple blob is the bounce castle in the backyard." "Thought that was their dog." Molly rolled her eyes and pointed to a cluster of stick figures. "These are the kids. Intel says there'll be twenty-seven of them, all hopped up on sugar and chaos." "Perfect cover," Bill muttered, sipping his coffee. "No one notices anything when kids are screaming." The waitress approached with their check, and Molly quickly flipped the map over, revealing a mundane grocery list on the back. After she left, Molly continued marking positions with a red crayon. "Entry point is here, through the kitchen. The mom will be too busy managing the cake disaster to notice." "What cake disaster?" "The one you're going to create at exactly 2:47 PM when you accidentally bump the dessert table." Bill grinned, revealing a gold tooth that caught the fluorescent light. Professional clumsiness was his specialty. Last month he'd stumbled his way into a country club vault while pretending to search for a bathroom. "And the presents?" "All concentrated in the living room, northwest corner. I counted forty-three packages during reconnaissance yesterday." "You went to the house?" "Posed as a balloon delivery person. Got the wrong address, terribly sorry, but little Timmy's mom was very helpful with directions." Bill studied the map again, tracing their escape route with one thick finger. The plan required them to navigate through a sea of sugar-crazed children, past a clown named Mr. Bubbles, around the petting zoo, and out through the neighbor's hedge. "What kind of sociopath hires both a clown and a petting zoo?" Bill wondered aloud. "Rich ones. Which means premium presents. We're talking top-shelf toys here, Bill. None of that discount store garbage." "Still feels wrong, stealing from kids." Molly leaned back, crossing her arms. The moral flexibility required for their profession sometimes bent in unexpected directions. "We're not stealing from kids. We're stealing from their parents who bought too much stuff anyway. Think of it as involuntary charity. We'll donate half to the children's hospital." "Twenty percent." "Forty." "Twenty-five, and I'm not wearing the dinosaur costume." "Deal, but you have to do the chicken dance during the diversion." Bill's expression suggested he'd rather extract his own teeth, but business was business. They shook hands over the syrup-sticky table, sealing their most ridiculous heist yet. "One more thing," Molly added, producing a small bottle from her jacket. "Glitter-proof spray. Trust me, we'll need it." Bill examined the bottle skeptically. After thirty years in the business, he thought he'd seen everything. But children's parties, apparently, were a whole different kind of dangerous.