Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the sticky table of the Waffle House booth, smoothing out the crayon-marked edges with the reverence of a general surveying a battlefield. The map had been drawn by her seven-year-old nephew, which meant the swimming pool was roughly the size of Texas and the house itself looked like it had been designed by a drunk spider. "The target is here," she said, tapping a lopsided rectangle labeledPRESINT TABLE in green crayon. "Right between the bounce house and the face-painting station." Bill leaned forward, squinting through his reading glasses. He was a large man, the kind of large that made chairs nervous, and he had the weathered face of someone who had seen things, most of them disappointing. "That's a lot of kids, Molly. I don't like kids. They're unpredictable. Worse than dogs." "They're six-year-olds, Bill. They're predictable in exactly one way. Sugar makes them insane, and insanity makes them blind to their surroundings. That's our window." She pulled out a folded sheet of notebook paper and unfolded it with a crisp snap. It was the itinerary, obtained through three days of surveillance on a Facebook group called Oakdale Moms Who Brunch. The party was for a child named Braxton, whose mother had posted no fewer than forty-seven updates about the superhero theme, the custom cake, and the gift registry that included items no six-year-old could reasonably need, including a leather-bound journal. "Cake gets served at two fifteen. Piñata goes up at two thirty. That gives us a thirteen-minute window where every child, parent, and hired Elsa impersonator will be clustered around the dessert table in the backyard." "And the presents?" "Front porch. Stacked on a folding table with a tablecloth that says Happy Birthday in a font that should be illegal. I've counted at least thirty-two confirmed RSVPs, which means thirty-two gifts, minimum. These Oakdale parents overcompensate. We're looking at high-value Lego sets, Bill. Possibly even a Nintendo Switch." Bill rubbed his jaw slowly. He had once broken into a diamond exchange in Antwerp using nothing but a paperclip and an alarming amount of confidence, but something about this job unsettled him in a way he couldn't articulate. "What's our exit strategy?" "We drive a white van marked with a Party Rentals logo. I had the magnetic signs made at the print shop on Fifth. We load the presents, smile at anyone who looks our way, and say we're transporting the gifts inside per the mother's request. Nobody questions a woman with a clipboard." "You have a clipboard?" "I have three clipboards, Bill. I'm a professional." He stared at her for a long moment, then picked up his coffee and took a slow, defeated sip. The plan was absurd. It was beneath them. It was morally questionable in ways that their usual work somehow wasn't. He set the mug down. "I'm going to need a disguise." "Obviously. I got you a Spider-Man shirt in triple XL." "I hate you, Molly." "You love me. Eat your waffle."