Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of the minivan, anchoring one corner with a juice box she'd swiped from a gas station. The crayon-scribed layout of the Hendersons' backyard looked like it had been drafted by a drunk cartographer, mostly because it had been drafted by Bill, who was both drunk and terrible with crayons. Bill squinted at his own masterpiece, rotating it twice before giving up on orientation entirely. He tapped a purple blob near what might have been the bounce house. "We go in through the side gate during the piñata. Every kid on that lawn will be swinging blind." Molly studied the timeline she'd assembled from Mrs. Henderson's obsessively detailed Facebook posts. Cake at two. Games at two thirty. Present opening at three. The window was tight, but greed made them nimble. "What about the clown?" she asked, not looking up. "Clown's on our payroll." She raised an eyebrow. Bill had a history of overstating his connections, and his so-called contacts had once included a mall Santa who turned out to be a mannequin. Still, twenty-three wrapped presents sat in that living room, and Molly hadn't worn her lucky sneakers for nothing. She folded the map with surgical precision and nodded.