Molly slapped a grease-stained napkin onto the Formica table of the diner, smoothing out the wrinkles with the flat of her hand. On the paper, drawn in crudely smeared ketchup, was a circle and several Xs. Focus, Bill. This is the target. 42 Sycamore Lane. The unsuspecting host is one Liam Miller, turning six today. Bill squinted at the condiment map, adjusting his sunglasses despite the dim lighting of the booth. Is the red blob the vault? he asked. That is the bouncy castle, Molly said, her voice low and grave. The vault is a folding card table covered in a Paw Patrol tablecloth. That is where the assets are being held. Bill whistled low. What are we looking at? Hard currency? Better. We have intel suggesting a pristine Millennium Falcon LEGO set and at least three remote-controlled cars. The fencing potential is through the roof. But the security is tight. How tight? Bill asked, leaning in. Armed guards? Worse. Suburban mothers. Four of them, strategically placed around the perimeter with chardonnay. They have eyes in the back of their heads, Bill. And the leader? A woman named Karen. She heads the PTA. She’s ruthless. Bill shuddered, taking a nervous sip of his lukewarm coffee. So, what’s the ingress? We go in through the side gate during the piñata ceremony. It’s the only time the guards’ attention will be diverted. The violent smashing of papier-mâché creates a frenzy. The children become animals. In the chaos, the perimeter weakens. That’s risky, Molly. The sugar levels will be spiking. You know how unpredictable a six-year-old is on high-fructose corn syrup. It’s a calculated risk. I’ve hired a specialist to handle crowd control. A specialist? Molly nodded toward the window. I paid a magician fifty bucks to start his show ten minutes early. The Great Rinaldo. He’s terrible, Bill. Absolutely hack. He’ll pull a rabbit out of a hat, and the sheer disappointment will stun the crowd into silence. That represents our window. You’re cold, Molly. I’m a professional. Now, once Rinaldo drops the dove—which is dead, by the way—you move on the gift table. You have ninety seconds before they start cutting the cake. And the extraction? The getaway vehicle is parked two blocks over. The van? No. The ice cream truck. Bill stared at her. You stole an ice cream truck? I borrowed it. It’s the perfect camouflage. We load the loot into the freezer, play the jingle, and drive away at five miles per hour. No one suspects the Mister Softee man. What about the clown? Bill asked suddenly, tapping a spot of mustard on the napkin. You didn’t mention a clown. Molly grimaced. There wasn’t supposed to be a clown. There’s always a clown, Molly! If Bozo makes me a balloon animal and I get cornered, I’m not going back to the joint. I can’t do time in a timeout corner again. Relax. If the clown makes a move, you engage the distracter. Which is? Molly slid a small, brightly colored canister across the table. Silly String. Aim for the eyes. It buys you thirty seconds of blindness. Bill picked up the can, weighing it in his hand like a grenade. Chemical warfare. I like it. We move at 1400 hours. Are you ready to ruin a childhood? Bill cracked a smile. I was born ready. Pass me the fries.