Molly slapped the “blueprints”—a crayon-scrawled map of a suburban backyard—onto the van’s greasy dashboard. The air inside smelled faintly of stale donuts and desperation. She tapped a franticly-drawn scribble labeled “Gift Table,” surrounded by smiling suns and what looked like a dinosaur. Across from her, Bill, a lanky man in an ill-fitting black turtleneck, was trying to stick a fake mustache over his own, which was significantly larger. The mission was absurd, but the rent was due. “Focus, Bill,” Molly snapped. “The objective is the presents, not the punch bowl.” “But the plan mentions a piñata,” he whined, the mustache now clinging to his cheek. “That’s a high-value target.” “It’s full of cheap Tootsie Rolls, not bearer bonds. Entry point is the side gate during the ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ phase. The clown provides cover.” “A clown? They’re unpredictable. What about the primary security? The giant inflatable castle? That’s a pressure-plate minefield.” “We circumvent the bouncy castle. You’re on distraction. If a child spots you, offer them a balloon. You’re ‘Uncle Barry.’” “Do I get a cool hat?” Bill asked, his eyes gleaming with misguided hope.