"You're telling me we scale the fence during musical chairs?" Bill asked, sweating through his ski mask. "Exactly when the parents are distracted by the impending sugar crash," Molly said. "Timmy's turning six. That means piñata protocol initiates at 3:15 sharp." "Piñata protocol?" "Blindfolded chaos, Bill. Complete sensory overload. We slip through the back while twenty toddlers are beating a cardboard unicorn with a bat." "What about the clown?" "Already handled. I swapped his balloon pump with a mild veterinary tranquilizer." "That's dark." "It's ketamine, Bill, not cyanide. He'll wake up in three hours thinking he's a very flexible giraffe." Molly unrolled a crayon map. "The presents are stacked by the cake. We grab, we go, nobody cries." "Kids always cry." "Not if we leave convincing decoys." She held up two wrapped boxes. "These contain steamed broccoli and remedial math worksheets." "You're a monster." "I'm a professional. Now stuff these juice boxes in your pockets—we're going in as caterers." "Caterers?" "Nobody questions the person holding the Capri Suns, Bill. Nobody." "What about the bouncy castle?" "Deflated. I poked it with a salad fork during the tour." "You brought a fork?" "I'm always prepared. That's why I'm the boss." "You're not the boss." "I have the crayon floor plan, Bill. I'm definitely the boss."