The map on the grease-stained napkin was drawn in crayon. Molly jabbed a finger at a crudely rendered sun over a suburban driveway. Keep your eyes on the bounce house, Bill. That is where the security detail congregates. You mean the sugar-high eight-year olds in superhero capes? Bill asked, adjusting his tactical turtleneck. Those miniature psychopaths will tackle you for a fruit snack, Bill. Don’t underestimate their perimeter defense. I still think the clown suit is overkill for a covert infiltration, he muttered, tugging at a ruffled rainbow collar. It is perfect camouflage. No one looks a clown in the eye. It is the sociological equivalent of a cloaking device. I look like a laundry basket exploded on me. Stop whining. Did you secure the distractions? I’ve got three dozen juice boxes and a bag of those organic puffs that taste like sawdust. They will be putty in my hands. Good. Once the cake is served, the primary targets will be unattended in the sunroom. You mean the pile of Lego sets and remote-controlled drones? I mean the high-yield assets. That Millennium Falcon set alone could fund our retirement in the Maldives. Or at least pay my rent for October. Is it true there is a pony? Bill leaned in, whispering. Intelligence suggests a Shetland named Barnaby. He is stationed near the rose bushes. Do not engage. Why not? I like ponies. Because ponies are snitches, Bill. They have no loyalty. Focus on the objective. We enter during the rendition of Happy Birthday. Use the high-pitched singing to mask the sound of the sliding glass door. What if the birthday boy sees us? The kid is turning five. Tell him you are a hallucination brought on by red dye number forty. He will believe anything. This feels morally ambiguous, even for us, Bill said, checking his watch. They’re children. They don’t appreciate the craftsmanship of a high-end toy. They’ll be playing with the cardboard boxes by sunset anyway. We are essentially recycling. I’m pretty sure the police call it grand larceny. Only if we get caught. Do you have the getaway vehicle ready? The minivan is idling around the corner. I put a Baby on Board sign in the window. No one pulls over a minivan. Genius. Now, put on your foam nose. It is time for the heist of the century. I hate the nose, Molly. It chafes. Professionalism, Bill. Please. Think of the Legos. Fine. I’m going in. But if a toddler bites me, I’m suing for hazard pay. Just grab the Star Wars boxes and meet me at the hedge. And for heaven’s sake, don’t touch the bouncy castle. It’s a structural nightmare. Copy that. Operation Juice Box is a go.