"It’s on, Bill. The Harmon-Heist party is a low-hanging fruit we cannot ignore." Bill folded his schematic with a sigh that could rust iron. "Molly, it’s a nursery. There’s an infant in the crib. An infant, for the love of God. And the perimeter guard is a chihuahua named Trigger. I don’t trust that little rat to hold a leash, let alone guard a hamper of Nintendo Switches." "The baby sleeps twelve hours a day. We’ll duct tape the door, snag the loot, and be gone before the first song ends." She mimicked a helicopter with her hand. "Swoop in, grab the diamond ring, the cash envelope, the artisanal cookies. We walk out with the entire gift budget. It’s a feast, Bill. A delicious, heistable feast." "It’s against the Geneva Convention, strictly speaking. And Trigger wears sneakers. Velcro sneakers, Molly. That’s a tactical advantage. I’ve calculated the odds of us coming back with our kneecaps intact. It’s ugly." "We wear masks, genius. And we bring snacks. Come on, the golden retriever can’t watch the exit forever."