The air in the dimly lit basement reeked of stale pizza and desperation. Molly, a woman whose neon pink hair defied gravity and common sense, tapped a meticulously sharpened cuticle against a crumpled map of the Peterson residence. "So, the birthday boy is Kevin, seven. Apparently, he's obsessed with 'Sparkle Unicorns and Turbo Trucks'." She pronounced "Sparkle Unicorns" like a particularly nasty rash. Bill, a man whose perpetual five o’clock shadow seemed to have its own gravitational pull, grunted. "Sparkle Unicorns? Seriously? I’m more of a 'Glow-in-the-Dark Dinosaurs' kind of guy." He adjusted his ill-fitting tweed jacket. "Focus, Bill," Molly snapped, tracing a line with her finger. "Mom and Dad are distracted by the piñata chaos. That's our window for the living room. The haul should be… substantial." "Substantial enough for a new set of those glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs?" Bill mused, a hopeful glint in his eye. "If you get us caught, you'll be lucky to get a stale cracker," Molly said, not unkindly. "Now, the bouncy castle is our camouflage. We blend, we grab, we vanish. Easy." "What if Kevin wants to play with the Turbo Trucks?" Bill asked. Molly stared at him. "He won't."