Review the schematic, Molly whispered, sliding the juice-stained napkin across the table. The target is a suburban semi-detached, Bill replied. Timmy is turning six. Intelligence suggests a high density of commercial-grade Lego sets and at least one robotic dog. What about the resistance? Heavy. We’re looking at a coalition of helicopter parents and an underpaid magician. The clown is a wildcard, Molly. He has crazy eyes. We wait for the cake cutting? Negative. We strike during musical chairs. Chaos is our ladder. While they fight for seating, we sweep the gift table. That’s bold. What’s the exit strategy? Through the kitchen, past the pin the tail on the donkey station, and out the sliding glass doors. And the bouncy castle blocking the perimeter? It’s a distraction. I’ve rigged the air pump to fail at thirteen-hundred hours. It turns into a tarp in thirty seconds flat. You’re a monster. I’m a professional, Bill. Did you secure the getaway vehicle? The ice cream truck is idling down the block. Perfect. The Mister Softee jingle will mask our footsteps. I’m still worried about the perimeter guard, Molly. The Golden Retriever? He smells fear. And bacon. Then fill your pockets with jerky. We’re taking that mountain of gift-wrapped glory, even if we have to step on a squeaky toy to do it.