Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the sticky diner table, nearly knocking over Bill's coffee in the process. She tapped a crayon-colored rectangle near the center. "That's the bouncy castle. It goes up at noon. Once it's inflated, we lose our entire eastern approach." Bill squinted at the map. "Why is everything drawn in crayon?" "I stole it from the kid's bedroom. He drew his own party layout. Honestly, Bill, the operational intelligence on this one is incredible. He even labeled where the cake goes." "Okay, so walk me through it again. We just stroll up and grab the presents?" "No, we do not just stroll up. Have you ever been to a six-year-old's birthday party? Those parents are feral, Bill. They're hopped up on boxed wine and resentment. One wrong look and a dad in cargo shorts will tackle you into a kiddie pool." Bill leaned back in the booth. "You're overthinking this." "Am I? Am I overthinking this? Tell me what happened in Scottsdale." "That was different." "You got chased three blocks by a woman in a Minnie Mouse costume." "She was surprisingly fast." "She was in heels, Bill." He stirred his coffee slowly. "So what's the plan?" "We go in disguise. I've already rented two costumes. You're going as a clown, and I'm going as a princess." "Why do I have to be the clown?" "Because you have the bone structure for it, and frankly, the personality." "I want to be the princess." "You can't be the princess. The princess needs to get close to the present table without arousing suspicion. Kids trust princesses. Kids throw things at clowns. You're the distraction." Bill rubbed his temples. "What kind of things?" "Cake, mostly. Maybe some juice boxes. You'll survive. While you're entertaining the little monsters in the backyard, I'll load the presents into the van." "And where's the van?" "Parked on Maple Street, two houses down. I've already scoped the neighborhood. There's an elderly woman at number fourteen who watches the street like a hawk, but she naps between one and two thirty. That's our window." "What about the birthday boy?" "What about him?" "I don't know, Molly. Don't you feel a little bad? He's turning six." Molly stared at him across the table. She folded her arms. "Bill, last month we stole an entire truckload of artisanal cheese from a food festival. You didn't feel bad about the cheese people." "Cheese people are adults. They can process loss." "The kid's getting like thirty presents. His parents are loaded. He'll recover. Besides, half those gifts are probably educational toys that no kid actually wants." Bill sighed heavily and drained his coffee. He looked at the crayon map one more time, at the little stick figures and the wobbly rectangle labeled PRESENTS in green. "Fine. But if a dad in cargo shorts comes at me, I'm running." "That's the spirit."