Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the sticky table of the doughnut shop, pushing aside two cruller wrappers and a coffee cup that had seen better days. The map was done in colored pencil, mostly because Bill had forgotten to buy actual pens, and the legend in the corner featured a tiny skull and crossbones next to the words "bouncy castle" as if it were a genuine hazard. "The party starts at two," Molly said, tapping a purple square that apparently represented the birthday boy's house. "We've got a forty-five-minute window between the gift table reaching maximum capacity and the moment they start opening presents." Bill leaned forward and squinted. He rotated the map twice before settling on an orientation that may or may not have been correct. "Why is the dog circled in red?" "Because the dog is a problem, Bill. The dog is always a problem. Last Tuesday I did recon disguised as a meter reader, and that animal chased me into a recycling bin. I was in there for twenty minutes breathing in old milk cartons." Bill nodded solemnly, as though this were a perfectly normal occupational hazard. In fairness, for them it was. Their last job had involved stealing a six-foot teddy bear from a carnival, and Molly had ended up dangling from a Ferris wheel while Bill argued with a clown about property rights. "So we neutralize the dog," Bill said, cracking his knuckles with the confidence of a man who had never successfully neutralized anything. "We don't neutralize the dog. We distract the dog. I bought seventeen dollars' worth of bacon treats. You're going to lure him into the garage while I slip through the side gate." "What if the garage is locked?" "It won't be. The dad leaves it open because he smokes cigars in there when his wife isn't looking. I've seen him do it three times. The man has a routine." Bill studied the map again, tracing the route from the side gate to the gift table with his finger. The path wound past the bouncy castle, through a cluster of symbols that Molly explained were lawn chairs, and around something she had labeled "slip zone" due to a garden sprinkler that ran on a timer. "How do we carry the presents out?" Bill asked. "There could be dozens." "IKEA bags. The big blue ones. They hold everything. I once fit an entire drum set in two of them." "That was a dark day for music." "Focus, Bill." She pulled out a photograph she had taken from across the street, zoomed in just enough to show a folding table draped in superhero-themed wrapping paper. Beneath the cheerful images of caped figures were boxes of varying sizes, each one representing someone's thoughtful gesture toward a seven-year-old named Tristan. Molly felt nothing about this. She had bills to pay and a fence in Burbank who would move Hot Wheels sets without asking questions. "We go in quiet, we go in fast, and we do not engage with any child," she said firmly. Bill saluted. They were going to get caught. They always got caught. But hope springs eternal in the hearts of idiots.