Molly spread the blueprint across the sticky table at Denny's, knocking over a syrup dispenser in the process. The architectural plans for Chuck E. Cheese had cost her forty dollars and a footlong sub, which she considered highway robbery, but that was beside the point. They were the robbers now. "Walk me through it again," Bill said, adjusting his reading glasses and squinting at the paper. "I want to make sure I understand the extraction protocol." "It's a children's birthday party, Bill, not a diamond vault in Monaco." "That's exactly what they want you to think." He tapped the blueprint with a grave finger. "You see this room here? That's the party zone. Saturday at two o'clock, little Timmy Henderson turns seven. His parents are loaded. We're talking high-end presents. LEGOs, Bill. The expensive LEGO sets." Molly leaned back and crossed her arms. "I've had my eye on those Star Wars ones for years. You know what they retail for?" "More than my car is worth," Bill admitted, which was not saying much since his car had been declared legally dead by three separate mechanics. "So here's the plan. You go in through the front dressed as a party entertainer. I put you down as Bingo the Magnificent." Bill's face darkened. "I told you, I don't do clown work anymore. Not after Phoenix." "You're not a clown. You're a magician. There's a difference." "The greasepaint doesn't know the difference, Molly." She sighed and rubbed her temples. The waitress refilled their coffees without making eye contact, which Molly appreciated. They looked like exactly what they were: two middle-aged people plotting something ill-advised over a Grand Slam breakfast. "Fine. No face paint. You wear the top hat, you do card tricks, and while every kid in that room is mesmerized by your stunning mediocrity, I slip in through the emergency exit and load the presents into the van." "What about the parents?" "They'll be at the salad bar. Trust me. The parents always go to the salad bar. It's the only edible thing in the building." Bill folded his arms and stared at the ceiling, performing what Molly recognized as his thinking ritual. It looked physically painful. After a long moment, he lowered his gaze. "What about the animatronic band? Those things have cameras in their eyes now." "No they don't, Bill." "I read it online." "You read that the moon is a hologram online. Focus, please." He picked up a crayon that had been left behind by a previous diner's child and began marking routes on the blueprint. His tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth. Molly watched him draw what appeared to be a series of increasingly confident arrows that led directly into the women's restroom. "That's the bathroom, Bill." He rotated the blueprint ninety degrees. "That's still the bathroom." He set down the crayon with dignity. "I'll drive the van." "You'll drive the van," she agreed, and stole his last piece of bacon.