Molly spread the hand-drawn blueprint across the sticky table at Denny's, pushing aside two plates of picked-over Grand Slams to make room. The crayon-scrawled map showed every critical detail of the Hendersons' backyard, from the inflatable bounce house to the folding table where, according to Molly's intelligence, the presents would be stacked in a magnificent pyramid of gift wrap and curly ribbon. "We hit the party at exactly two fifteen," Molly said, tapping the map with a syrup-smeared finger. "That's when the clown arrives. Every kid, every parent, every grandparent with a camcorder is going to be watching a man in oversized shoes make balloon animals. Nobody watches the present table during balloon animals. It's a scientific fact." Bill leaned forward and squinted at the map. He turned it sideways, then upside down. "Did a child draw this?" "I drew it, Bill." "With crayons?" "I was out of pens. Focus, please." Bill focused. Or at least he made the face he always made when he was trying to focus, which involved a great deal of nostril flaring and very little actual comprehension. He had the look of a man who had peaked intellectually somewhere around the tenth grade and had been coasting on charm and flexible morals ever since. Molly had recruited him for his van, which was windowless and forgettable, and for his surprising ability to carry large quantities of things while running at full speed. She did not recruit him for strategy sessions, and yet here he was, poking holes in her crayon cartography. "What's this brown blob?" he asked. "That's the dog. Labradoodle. Name's Biscuit. Friendly but loud. I've got a pound of bacon in the van to keep him occupied." "And this orange blob?" "That's the piñata. Do not engage the piñata, Bill. The moment you touch that thing, you'll have fifteen six-year-olds descending on you like hyenas on a zebra carcass." Bill nodded slowly, absorbing this with the gravity of a man being briefed on a bank vault. He cracked his knuckles one at a time, a habit Molly found both disgusting and oddly reassuring. It meant he was committing. She outlined the exit strategy. They would load the presents into two large IKEA bags she had purchased specifically for the job, cut through the neighbor's yard where a conveniently broken fence panel provided passage, and reach the van parked on Mulberry Street in under ninety seconds. She had timed the route three times already, once while wearing the novelty sunglasses and floppy hat that would constitute their disguises. "What if a kid sees us?" Bill asked. "Kids see everything, Bill. They just don't process it correctly. We'll look like parents helping move presents inside. Confidence is the disguise." "And what's our take looking like?" Molly grinned. She pulled out her phone and showed him the birthday boy's mother's Instagram page, where every gift had been lovingly photographed and tagged. "LEGO sets, Bill. Twelve of them. A drone. Two iPads. And a karaoke machine." Bill's eyes went wide with a greed normally reserved for casino floors and all-you-can-eat buffets. "I'm in." He had been in since the bacon.