The blueprints were spread across the hood of Bill’s battered sedan, flapping in the gentle breeze. Molly traced a finger along the schematic of the suburban home, her brow furrowed in concentration. Bill, meanwhile, was trying to discreetly eat a jam doughnut without getting sticky fingerprints on the sensitive documents. The plan was simple: during the peak of the birthday chaos, they would blend in. Bill, in a slightly-too-tight clown costume, would provide a distraction involving a surprisingly complex balloon animal and a whoopee cushion. Molly, disguised as a very bored aunt, would slip through the back, which the blueprints showed was alarmingly unsecured. The presents, the target, were reportedly piled high in the living room, a veritable mountain of wrapped booty. Their escape route was through the side gate, leading to the alley where the car waited. The real challenge wasn’t the alarms, but the sheer number of sugar-fueled witnesses. “What if one of the kids asks for a real pony?” Bill mumbled through a mouthful of pastry. “Then you tell them they’re adopted,” Molly snapped, her eyes never leaving the blueprint. “Focus.”