The single lightbulb swung overhead, casting long, jittery shadows against the peeling wallpaper of the basement. Molly slapped a ruler down onto the card table, causing a cloud of dust to puff up around the blueprints. The map was drawn in purple crayon on construction paper, but she studied it with the intensity of a general on the eve of war. Code Red, Bill, she said, her voice low and gravelly. We have a problem with the perimeter. Bill looked up from the bag of pretzels he was quietly demolishing. He squinted at the purple scribbles. Is it the fence? he asked. I brought the bolt cutters. No, you idiot, it is the bouncy castle, Molly hissed, pointing the ruler at a wobbly square near the center of the page. The structural integrity is compromised. If we try to use it as a springboard to the gift table, we risk deflating the entire operation. Bill nodded slowly, swallowing a dry pretzel. Okay, so we go around the castle. What about the guards? Molly straightened up and began to pace the small room, her tactical turtleneck rustling in the silence. Intelligence suggests two primary threats, she said, holding up two fingers. First, we have the father. He is manning the grill. He is distracted, sweating, and focused on the burgers. He is low risk. And the second? Bill asked. The mother, Molly whispered, her eyes widening. Brenda. She has a peripheral vision range of one hundred and eighty degrees. She counts the heads of the children every forty-five seconds. If she sees two grown adults crawling through the azaleas, she will not hesitate to unleash the hose. Bill shuddered. He remembered the hose from the failed barbecue job in July. So we need a distraction, he said. Exactly. Molly reached into a duffel bag and pulled out a terrifyingly realistic rubber spider. At 1400 hours, just as the cake is being brought out, you will deploy the asset into the punch bowl. The spider? Bill asked, poking one of its rubber legs. It will trigger mass hysteria, Molly explained, a manic grin spreading across her face. While Brenda is managing the screaming toddlers, I will rappel from the treehouse roof, secure the loot, and extract via the side gate. Bill looked skeptical. He tapped the drawing where a pile of squares represented the haul. Are we sure the payout is worth it, Mol? Last time we risked jail time for a bag of piñata candy that turned out to be mostly raisins. Molly slammed her hand on the table again. This is the big score, Bill! We are talking about high-end merchandise. Legos. Action figures with articulation. A remote-controlled car that actually turns left. Do you have any idea what that goes for on the black market? eBay? Don't get technical with me. Bill sighed and zipped up his jacket. Fine. But if Mr. Pogo the Clown sees us, I am aborting. I don't do clowns. Mr. Pogo is on the payroll, Molly assured him, tucking the map into her pocket. I bribed him with a pack of smokes and a ride to the bus station. The presents are ours, Bill. Now put on your mask. Bill pulled the ski mask over his face, though the eye holes were slightly misaligned. I still think we should take the cake, too, he muffled through the wool. Focus, Bill. Focus.