The basement of Molly's apartment smelled like stale pizza and desperation, which Bill always found oddly comforting. He spread the hand-drawn map across the coffee table, knocking over three empty energy drink cans in the process. Molly squinted at his artwork. "Is that supposed to be a bouncy castle or a tumor?" "It's the inflatable obstacle course. Very important tactical consideration." Bill tapped the crude drawing with his pencil. "Kids go in one side, come out the other looking like they've survived a war. That's our window." She pulled her reading glasses down from her hair, which made her look like a librarian who'd made several questionable life choices. The glasses were stolen, naturally. Everything in Molly's life was stolen except her cat, and she had serious suspicions about where that animal came from. "Walk me through it again," she said. Bill cleared his throat and adopted his planning voice, which was slightly deeper and made him sound like a GPS navigator with trust issues. "Birthday party starts at two. Parents drop kids off like they're releasing hostages. By two-thirty, pure chaos. Screaming. Sugar. Someone will definitely vomit." "That's your in?" "The presents get stacked on a table near the back door. Everyone's focused on little Timmy or whatever his name is." "It's actually Bradley." Bill waved dismissively. "We slip in dressed as entertainment, load the gifts into the van, and we're gone before anyone notices." Molly leaned back and crossed her arms. The gesture reminded Bill of his mother, which was troubling for several reasons. "And what entertainment, exactly, are we supposed to be?" He reached into his backpack and produced two rainbow wigs and a pair of oversized shoes that looked like they'd been rejected from a circus for being too sad. "Absolutely not." "Clowns are invisible at children's parties. It's science." "It's humiliating, is what it is." She grabbed one of the wigs anyway, examining it like a detective inspecting evidence at a crime scene. The synthetic hair felt like it had been harvested from a very cheap doll. "Where did you even get these?" "You don't want to know." She really didn't. That was the foundation of their partnership. Bill acquired things through methods that Molly deliberately never questioned, and she provided the common sense that kept them both out of prison. So far the system had worked reasonably well, minus that incident in Tampa that they'd agreed never to discuss. The party was scheduled for Saturday at a community center on Maple Street. Bill had done reconnaissance, which in his case meant driving past twice and making assumptions. The presents at these events were substantial. Parents in that neighborhood competed through gift-giving like it was an Olympic sport. Molly studied the map again, calculating angles and exits and the likelihood that this whole thing would collapse into a spectacular failure. The odds weren't great, but they never were. "Fine," she said. "But I'm not making balloon animals."