The map was spread across the grease-stained table of the Golden Griddle, though calling it a map was generous. It was a napkin onto which Bill had sketched a layout in leaking ballpoint pen. He stabbed a finger at a circle labeled Bounce House. This is the lynchpin, Bill whispered, his eyes darting toward a waitress. Once the inflatable structure reaches peak capacity, the structural integrity of the party shifts. High-intensity screaming. Pure chaos. Molly adjusted her glasses, peering at his chicken-scratch. And you’re sure the loot is in the sunroom? Stacked like a colorful ziggurat of consumerism, Bill confirmed. We’re talking high-end robotics, those miniature electric cars that cost more than my first divorce, and at least three remote-controlled drones. Molly sighed, leaning back in the vinyl booth. It feels wrong, Bill. They’re eight. The sugar-coating of youth doesn’t change the black market value of a Mint-Condition Galactic Ranger, Molly. This is a redistribution of joy. We redistribute the joy to our landlord so he doesn't evict us. Fine, she said, tracing a perimeter line. But the disguise is non-negotiable. I am not wearing the felt ears. The felt ears are vital for infiltration, Bill insisted, his voice rising an octave. If the parents see two adults lurking by the hibiscus bushes, we’re creeps. If they see two oversized, somewhat grimy meadow bunnies, we’re the hired entertainment that got the address wrong. It’s the perfect camouflage. Nobody hires a six-foot-four rabbit with a cigarette cough, Bill. It's terrifying. They’ll be too distracted by the fondant-induced rage of twenty toddlers to notice my respiratory health, he countered. Now, the extraction. We use the modified stroller. The one with the reinforced floorboards? And the nitrous tank hidden in the diaper bag, Bill added with a proud grin. We roll in, fill the chassis with the heavy electronics, and roll out before the clown finishes his balloon animal routine. Molly looked at the napkin, then at Bill’s hopeful, desperate face. I get the stroller. You get the bounce house distraction. Why do I have to do the jumping? Bill asked, his face falling. My knees aren't what they were in the ninety-eight jewelry heist. Because you’re the one who bought the bunny suit, Molly snapped. You wear the ears, you do the hop. It’s physics. Or karma. Possibly both. Bill looked down at his cold coffee, a visionary discouraged by the logistical realities of his craft. Fine. I’ll bounce. But if I throw out my back, you’re dragging the Galactic Rangers to the van yourself. Deal, Molly said, standing up and tossing a crumpled five-dollar bill on the table. Let’s go. I need to sharpen my wire cutters and find some industrial-strength glitter. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it with style. Style? Bill grumbled, sliding out of the booth. I’m going to be sweating in a polyester fur-trap while a kid named Brayden tries to kick me in the shins. There is no style in the bunny game, Molly. Only survival.