Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the sticky table at Denny's, knocking over a small tower of creamer cups that Bill had been constructing for the past fifteen minutes. He looked genuinely heartbroken about it but said nothing, choosing instead to focus on the crayon-scrawled blueprint before them. The map depicted a suburban house in alarming detail. There were tiny stick figures in the backyard, a rectangle labeled BOUNCE HOUSE in red crayon, and a massive X over the garage with the words PRESENT TABLE written in Molly's aggressive capital letters. "The party starts at two," Molly said, tapping the garage with a french fry. "That gives us a window between two-fifteen and two-thirty, when the magician arrives. Every kid, every parent, every sticky little face will be glued to that man pulling rabbits out of hats." Bill leaned forward and squinted. "Where did you get this intelligence?" "Facebook. The mom posted everything. The theme, the guest list, the timeline. She even posted which gifts people were bringing. We're looking at a KidKraft kitchen set, two LEGO Star Destroyers, and at least four Squishmallows." Bill whistled low and long, the sound of a man who understood the resale value of unopened LEGO sets. The plan was elegant in its simplicity, which worried Bill because Molly's plans were never simple and rarely elegant. She outlined the approach while he ate his Grand Slam breakfast. They would arrive disguised as balloon artists, a cover Molly had been rehearsing for three days in her apartment. She could now make a passable sword and something she called a dog but which looked more like a tumor with legs. "We walk in through the side gate," she continued, "set up near the bounce house, and wait. When the magician starts his act, we load the presents into the balloon bags and walk right out the front door." "What if someone asks why the balloon people are leaving with giant lumpy bags?" "We tell them we're bringing in the special balloons from the van." "We don't have a van." "We'll have a van by Saturday." Bill did not ask how. He had learned that asking Molly follow-up questions about vehicle acquisition only led to anxiety and occasional insomnia. She folded the map with surgical precision and tucked it into her jacket pocket, right next to a package of Rolaids and what appeared to be a small dog made of balloons. The tumor dog. She carried it like a talisman. "The biggest risk is the bounce house," she said, her voice dropping. "Kids go feral in those things. If one of them escapes and spots us near the presents, we're done. Children have no loyalty but they have incredible lungs." Bill nodded solemnly. He had once been identified in a lineup by a six-year-old witness and had never fully recovered from the humiliation. "So we're really doing this," he said. Molly smiled the way she always did before something went terribly wrong. "Happy birthday to us."