The neon sign of the Tip-Top Laundromat flickered, casting a sickly green glow over the folding table where Bill had laid out the blueprints. He was sweating despite the air conditioning. It wasn’t the heat; it was the sheer tactical complexity of the inflatable obstacle course. Is that a bouncy house? Molly asked, her eyes narrowing as she pointed a manicured finger at the diagram. It is a fortress of vinyl and air, Bill whispered. It guards the perimeter of the gift table. If we trip the internal pressure sensor, the slide collapses. We’ll be buried in plastic balls before we can reach the LEGO sets. Are you seriously telling me we’re worried about a slide? It’s about the physics, Molly. Do you have the camouflage? Molly reached into her duffel bag and pulled out a bright purple, oversized plush suit with googly eyes the size of dinner plates. I look like a grape that’s had a stroke, she said. Why am I the mascot and you’re the caterer? Because I have the mustache for the mustard stains, Bill replied, smoothing his fake whiskers. Besides, the kids won't suspect a mascot. You represent joy. You represent the spirit of the party. I represent a fire hazard, Bill. This fur is synthetic. One spark from a birthday candle and I’m a violet fireball. What’s the status of the target? The target is a three-tier stack of wrapped boxes situated next to the juice box station, Bill said, tapping a red X on the map. Most of it is fluff. Pajamas, board games, disappointment. But in the center? The Titanium-Edition drone. Six hundred dollars of pure surveillance tech. And the guards? Molly asked. Mothers, Bill said darkly. They operate on a hive mind. They move in clusters of three, armed with iPhones and judgment. If one sees you, they all see you. You have to maintain the character. No matter what they do to you, do not break. What do you mean, what they do to me? Kids are tactile, Molly. They will kick your shins to see if you’re real. They might try to feed you a chicken nugget through the mouth hole. Do not gag. If you gag, we lose the drone. I hate kids, Molly muttered, stroking the mascot’s fuzzy ear. Focus on the prize. When the cake comes out, that’s our window. The sugar rush creates a localized riot. In the confusion, I’ll swap the drone box for a decoy filled with old phone books. You provide the distraction. What kind of distraction? Give them the old Razzle-Dazzle. I am not doing the Razzle-Dazzle in a grape suit. Then we go hungry! Bill slammed his hand on the table. Do you want the drone or do you want your dignity? Molly sighed, looking at the purple head. Fine. But if I get apple juice on my shoes, I’m taking your share of the pawn money.