The basement of Molly's apartment smelled like stale pizza and ambition, which Bill had always thought was a peculiar combination but one that seemed to follow his partner wherever she went. Molly spread the hand-drawn map across her coffee table, pushing aside three empty energy drink cans and what appeared to be a taxidermied squirrel she claimed was for another job entirely. "The target is Timmy Henderson's seventh birthday party," she announced with the gravitas of a general planning an invasion. "Saturday at two. The presents will be staged in the living room, northwest corner, approximately four feet from the bounce house perimeter." Bill squinted at the map. "Is that supposed to be a dog or a security guard?" "It's a labradoodle named Mr. Sprinkles. He's the only variable I'm worried about." "You're worried about a labradoodle." "He bit a mailman last spring. The man needed six stitches, Bill. Six." Bill leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. Molly had purchased her furniture from a going-out-of-business sale at a funeral home, and everything in her apartment seemed to be in a constant state of mourning for its own existence. "Walk me through the entry point again," he said. Molly traced her finger along a crude rendering of the Henderson backyard. "We go in through the side gate during the magic show. Every parent will be watching some guy in a cape pull rabbits out of things. Meanwhile, we slip in dressed as party entertainers." "What kind of entertainers?" "Clowns." Bill felt his stomach drop. "Absolutely not. We agreed after the circus incident that I would never wear face paint again." "That was different. That was mime paint. This is clown paint. Totally separate categories." "Paint is paint, Molly." She rolled her eyes with such theatrical exaggeration that Bill worried they might get stuck. "Fine. You can be a balloon animal artist. No paint required. Just a vest and a vague sense of inadequacy." Bill considered this. He did own several vests, and inadequacy was something he carried with him like a wallet. The plan itself was beautifully simple in that way Molly's plans always started before becoming catastrophically complicated. They would infiltrate during peak distraction, load the presents into large canvas bags disguised as equipment carriers, and exit through the back gate before anyone noticed that little Timmy's haul had vanished. "What about the parents?" Bill asked. "Wine. There's always wine at these things. By three o'clock, they'll be too busy complaining about their mortgages to notice anything." Molly pulled out two laminated badges that read "Party Pals Entertainment" in cheerful rainbow letters. "I had these made at the copy shop on Fifth. The teenager working there didn't even ask questions." Bill picked up his badge and examined the photo. "This isn't me." "Close enough. You both have faces." He couldn't argue with that logic, mostly because arguing with Molly was like trying to nail jelly to a cloud.