Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of the minivan, smoothing out the crayon marks with her palm. She had stolen the map from the refrigerator of the Henderson household three days ago, right between a spelling test with a gold star and a macaroni portrait of what she could only assume was a horse. The map detailed the entire backyard layout for little Timmy Henderson's seventh birthday party, complete with a bounce house drawn as a wobbly rectangle and an X marking where the presents would be stacked. Bill leaned over her shoulder, breathing heavily through his mouth because he refused to treat his deviated septum out of principle. He smelled like gas station coffee and regret. "So the gift table is here, next to the bounce house," Molly said, tapping the spot with a chewed fingernail. "We've got a window between two and two fifteen, right after the magician starts his act. Every kid and every parent will be watching some guy pull a rabbit out of a hat." "What if the magician is actually good?" Bill asked. "He charges forty dollars for a two-hour party, Bill. He's not going to be good." Bill nodded slowly, absorbing this with the gravity of a man considering the great mysteries of the universe. He pulled a juice box from his jacket pocket and stabbed the straw through the top, slurping loudly while he studied the map. The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Molly would arrive disguised as a party entertainer, a backup face painter she had called in as a fictional favor to the Henderson family. Bill would wait in the alley behind the fence with the van running. While the children sat mesmerized by discount magic, Molly would load the presents into a large bag she planned to disguise as a sack of face-painting supplies. She would pass them over the fence to Bill, walk calmly through the side gate, and they would drive away before anyone noticed that the mountain of wrapped packages had vanished. "What about the dog?" Bill asked. Molly reached into her pocket and produced a gallon-sized bag filled with bacon strips. She had cooked an entire package that morning, and her apartment still smelled like a diner at sunrise. The Henderson dog was a beagle named Sergeant Waffles, and according to her surveillance, Sergeant Waffles would sell his entire family for a single piece of bacon. "You really thought of everything," Bill said with genuine admiration. "I've been casing this party for two weeks. I sat through a PTA meeting, Bill. A full PTA meeting. Do you know what that does to a person?" Bill shuddered. He did not know, and he did not want to. Molly folded the map and tucked it into her jacket. She looked out across the quiet suburban street where sprinklers whispered against fresh-cut lawns and decorative flags rippled in the breeze. Somewhere down that street, a pile of presents sat waiting, wrapped in shiny paper and stuffed with toys they could fence by Tuesday. "Tomorrow we move," she said. Bill slurped the last of his juice box and crushed it in his fist. "Tomorrow we move."