The blueprints were actually a crayon drawing on the back of a violently orange pizza flyer, but Molly smoothed them out on the dashboard like they were the architectural schematics for the Federal Reserve. She adjusted her tactical sunglasses, despite the fact that they were parked in the shade of a weeping willow that had seen better days. The interior of the van smelled of stale coffee and high-stakes tension, though the stakes in question involved a suburban backyard in New Jersey rather than a bank vault in Zurich. Beside her, Bill was trying to clean a stubborn mustard stain off his tactical vest, which was actually a fishing vest he had bought at a yard sale for three dollars. Molly adjusted the focus on her binoculars. The enemy encampment was fortified with crepe paper streamers and a bouncy castle that shuddered with every jump of its occupants. "The asset is unprotected," Molly whispered, her voice a gravelly rasp. "Complex sugar levels act as a natural sedative. They are distracted." Bill looked out the window of their rusty Ford Windstar. The backyard was chaos, a swirling vortex of six-year-olds high on juice boxes. He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Molly, look at them. They’re children. And the 'asset' is a pile of gift-wrapped boxes. Are we really going to do hard time for a 'My Little Pony' castle?" "It’s not about the ponies, Bill. It’s about the thrill. And look at that big silver box. That’s a drone. A high-end quadcopter. I can feel it." Molly pulled a stopwatch from her pocket. The plan was complex, reliant on the erratic schedule of a hired clown named Twisty. She had been tracking the clown’s movements for twenty minutes and had determined his nicotine cycle was imminent. When Twisty went for a smoke, the perimeter would be weak. She pointed a gloved finger at a woman wielding a cake knife with terrifying authority. "That woman is the warden. We wait for the piñata. Violence distracts the masses. When the bat starts swinging, we move on the table." Bill picked up the red foam nose from the center console. He stared at it with existential dread, turning the spongy sphere over in his large hands. "Remind me again why I’m the diversion?" "Because you have the face for comedy, Bill. You go in, juggle the oranges, confuse the hostiles. I flank the gift table and secure the payload. We meet at the extraction point behind the hydrangea bush." A sudden cheer erupted from the party as a man in a Spider-Man costume tripped over a garden hose. Molly tensed, her muscles coiling like springs. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of burnt hot dogs and cut grass. Molly viewed this as a tactical advantage, a smokescreen provided by nature itself. She turned to Bill, her eyes narrowing behind the dark lenses. "Did you bring the sedative for the guard dog?" Bill patted his pocket, hearing the crinkle of a wrapper. He looked guilty, avoiding her gaze by focusing on a squirrel running along the fence. "I ate the jerky, Molly. I got nervous." Molly stared at him, her mouth a thin line of disappointment. She looked back at the golden retriever sleeping soundly in a patch of sunlight. The heist was already compromising its integrity before they had even breached the gate. "Fine. We improvise. If the beast wakes, you offer it your hand. Sacrifice is necessary for the score." She unlocked the door with a decisive click. The sounds of screaming children and squeaking balloons drifted into the van and Molly signaled the advance. It was time to move.