The warehouse smelled of motor oil and poor decisions. Molly spread the blueprints across the rickety card table, smoothing out the creases with her palm. "You cannot be serious," Bill said, squinting at the paper. "This is a Chuck E. Cheese." "It's the Willowbrook Country Club. These rich kids get actual ponies at their parties, Bill. Ponies." "I see a bouncy castle drawn in crayon." "That's the pool house." Molly tapped the diagram with her index finger. "Focus." Bill rubbed his temples. Twenty years of partnership, and somehow each job got more ridiculous than the last. Last month it was stealing garden gnomes from a retirement community. Now this. "The Henderson kid turns seven on Saturday. His dad owns three yacht dealerships. You know what I got for my seventh birthday? A coupon for a free ice cream cone that had already expired." "Tragic. Really. But we're not actually going to—" "We're going in through the kitchen entrance at 2:47 PM. That's peak cake time. Everyone will be distracted." Bill watched a spider descend from the ceiling on an invisible thread. Even it seemed to be shaking its head. "Molly, we rob banks. We steal paintings. We don't crash children's birthday parties dressed as what I'm assuming are clowns?" He gestured at the costume sketches she'd included. "Entertainment specialists. And we're not crashing. We're infiltrating." "Same difference." "Completely different. Crashing implies poor planning. We have excellent planning. Look, I've even accounted for the petting zoo." "The what now?" "Mobile petting zoo. Arrives at 2:15. Perfect cover for us wheeling in the 'entertainment supplies.'" Bill stood up, chair scraping against concrete. Outside, a dog barked at nothing in particular. Or maybe it sensed the sheer absurdity radiating from their location. "I'm going home." "To your empty apartment and microwave dinners?" "Those microwave dinners never asked me to steal from seven-year-olds." "We're stealing from their parents. The kids get to keep the emotional memories." "How generous." Molly rolled up the blueprints, securing them with a rubber band she'd probably stolen from somewhere. "The Hendersons have a gift registry at stores that don't even have websites. These presents are worth more than your car." "My car's worth negative dollars. I owe money on it." "Exactly. So what's your moral objection here?" Bill considered this. The spider had reached the floor and was making its way toward freedom. Smart spider. "What kind of parent hires clowns—sorry, entertainment specialists—they've never met?" "Rich ones. They outsource everything. Trust me, I've done the research." "Your research appears to be in crayon." "I had to blend in at the country club's family fun day. Reconnaissance requires sacrifice." The warehouse settled around them with a groan. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Bill wondered if it was heading toward another of their terrible ideas. "Fine. But I get to pick our next job." "Deal. Now, let's practice your balloon animals."