Molly spread the hand-drawn blueprint across the sticky table at Denny's, pushing aside a plate of cold mozzarella sticks to make room. The schematic, rendered in what appeared to be purple crayon, depicted the interior of a suburban house with alarming tactical precision. Little arrows indicated entry points, and someone had drawn stars around what was labeled THE GIFT TABLE in blocky capitals. "We hit at fourteen hundred hours," Molly said, tapping the blueprint with a french fry. "That's when the magician starts his set in the backyard. Every kid, every parent, every sticky little eyewitness will be watching a man pull scarves out of his sleeves for twenty minutes." Bill leaned forward and squinted at the drawing. He had the physique of a retired linebacker who had discovered pasta and never looked back, and the booth creaked under his shifting weight. A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, though whether from nerves or the proximity of the mozzarella sticks was unclear. "What kind of presents are we talking here?" he asked. "The kid's father is a tech executive. We're talking high-end gifts. Premium LEGOs. Possibly a drone. One source confirmed a PlayStation." "Source?" "The birthday boy's Instagram. He has three thousand followers, Bill. The kid is eight." Bill absorbed this information with the quiet horror of a man who had never received more than a gift card to Applebee's for any occasion in his life. He studied the blueprint again and noticed a section near the back door marked with crosshatched shading and the words DANGER ZONE. "What's this area here?" "Bounce house," Molly said gravely. "It's positioned right next to the sliding glass door, which is our primary exit. We'll need to move fast because those things are unpredictable. Kids go in sober and come out feral. I saw a seven-year-old knock a grown man unconscious at a party in Scottsdale." "This feels wrong," Bill said, though his tone carried the resignation of a man who already knew he was going to do it anyway. Molly folded her arms and fixed him with the stare she usually reserved for parking enforcement officers and people who talked during movies. She had planned this operation for three weeks, cross-referencing the party invitation they had intercepted from a neighbor's mailbox with satellite imagery of the property and Yelp reviews of the magician, who averaged two and a half stars and was described by multiple parents as both disappointing and weirdly aggressive. "We'll disguise ourselves as balloon artists. I already bought the helium tank. You know how to make a poodle?" "I can make a snake." "Everyone can make a snake, Bill. That's just a balloon." He conceded the point with a shrug. Outside the Denny's window, suburbia sprawled in its beige indifference, utterly unaware that its most elaborate heist was being orchestrated between a Grand Slam breakfast and a refillable coffee. Molly rolled up the blueprint and tucked it into her fanny pack with the ceremonial precision of a general archiving battle plans. The mozzarella sticks had gone completely cold. Neither of them cared.