Molly spread the crayon-drawn map across the dashboard and squinted at it like a surgeon studying an X-ray. The birthday party was at three. They had forty minutes. "Run me through the security again," Bill said, adjusting his fake mustache in the rearview mirror. "One golden retriever, mostly blind. A baby gate across the hallway. And Margaret Henderson, age seventy-two, who falls asleep in every chair she sits in." "What about the birthday boy?" "He's six. He bites." Bill nodded solemnly. He'd dealt with biters before. The scar on his thumb throbbed at the memory. "The presents will be stacked on the dining room table," Molly continued, tapping a purple scribble on the map. "We go in through the back door during musical chairs. Nobody ever watches the back door during musical chairs. It's too competitive." "What's our exit strategy?" "I've got the minivan parked behind the hydrangeas. We load up and we're gone before they cut the cake." Bill pulled on his latex gloves and took a steadying breath. Somewhere inside that house sat a mountain of wrapped presents, and every single one of them was about to find a new home. "Let's go steal from some children," he whispered.