Molly unrolled the blueprints across the dashboard of the faded minivan. They were not actual architectural schematics but rather a crude crayon drawing Bill had fished out of the unsuspecting family’s recycling bin the night before. A heavy red circle marked the living room, aggressively scribbled over with the word PILE. Talk to me, Bill, Molly said, clicking a pen against the steering wheel. What is the situation on the ground? Bill adjusted the focus on his tactical binoculars, peering through the windshield at the beige suburban split-level across the street. A bouncy castle shuddered violently in the front yard, threatening to uproot the freshly manicured azaleas with every rhythmical impact. Hostiles have breached the perimeter, Bill whispered, his voice trembling slightly. I count twelve shorties. Maybe thirteen. They are hopped up on organic juice boxes and pure aggression, Mol. It is a war zone out there. Stay focused, she snapped, checking the mirrors. We knew the risks when we took the job. What about the asset? The gift table is exposed, Bill reported, licking his dry lips. I see high-value targets. Large boxes, shake-to-wake electronics, maybe even a limited edition Mega-Zord. But there is a significant obstacle. Molly leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. Parents? Worse, Bill said, lowering the binoculars slowly to reveal his pale face. They hired a clown. Molly cursed under her breath. A clown changed the extraction variables entirely. Clowns possessed erratic movement patterns and squeaky shoes that could easily blow a stealth entry. She tapped the crayon map with a manicured fingernail. Is it Buttons or Giggles? she asked. It is Buttons, Bill confirmed with a grim nod. I recognize the oversized polka dots and the dead look in his eyes. He is a freelancer, unpredictable. If he starts making balloon animals during the extraction, we lose our window of opportunity. We stick to the plan, Molly said, checking her digital watch. At fourteen-hundred hours, the mother brings out the cake. That is the distraction event. When they start singing, we breach through the side gate. What if the sugar rush hasn't kicked in? Bill asked, wiping sweat from his upper lip. You know I cannot handle a swarm, Molly. My ankles are not what they used to be. If they latch onto my legs, I’m going down. That is why we brought the suppression gear, Molly said, gesturing to the heavy duffel bag in the back seat. Bill looked back, eyes widening. The sleeping gas? No, you idiot, Molly hissed. The bubble machine. It provides visual cover and distracts the hostiles. While they pop bubbles, we grab the loot and extract via the patio doors. Bill nodded, though he looked nauseous. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a granola bar, trying to steady his nerves. The bouncy castle across the street let out a definitive squeal as a child launched himself into the safety netting. I don't like stealing from Timmy, Mol, Bill mumbled. He looks like a biter. We are not stealing from Timmy, Molly corrected, putting the car in neutral. We are liberating inventory. Besides, he is turning seven. He needs to learn that life is full of disappointment. We are basically educators. Educators with ski masks, Bill noted. The best kind, she said. Now, put your mask on. The cake is coming out.