Molly unrolled the finger-painted blueprint across the kitchen table, smearing neon green handprints across the laminate. Bill leaned in, squinting at what appeared to be a crude drawing of a suburban ranch house surrounded by red circles that looked like landmines but were probably just garden gnomes. The smell of stale coffee and desperation hung in the air of Molly's studio apartment, punctuated by the ticking of a cat clock with googly eyes. A microwave burrito sat half-eaten on a paper plate, congealing in the afternoon heat. "You're telling me we're hitting a six-year-old's birthday party?" Bill asked, adjusting his bifocals. "Not just any party," Molly replied, tapping a crayon X near the sliding glass door. "The Henderson kid. His father invented that app that makes your phone fart. We're talking LEGO Death Stars and three Nintendo Switches." Bill scratched his graying beard, his rheumatism acting up from the humidity. "I spent thirty years cracking safes in Luxembourg. I did eighteen months in Federal prison." "Now you're unemployed and living in my sister's basement," Molly said, pouring lukewarm coffee into a mug that said Worlds Okayest Aunt. She wiped a grease stain from her camouflage pants with a baby wipe from her pocket. "The timing is flawless. The clown arrives at two, creates a diversion. We enter during the piñata sequence when everyone is blindfolded." "Clown?" "I hired him. Former acquaintance from the halfway house. Goes by Bubbles now." Bill studied the map again, his brow furrowing beneath his retirement community haircut. He traced the escape route with a trembling finger, noting the proximity to the juice box station. "What about security?" "One dad, three moms with wine, and a golden retriever." "Laser systems?" "Baby monitor. Channel four." Bill straightened up, cracking his knuckles with the sound of popcorn kernels. He paced the linoleum, his orthopedic shoes squeaking against the floor. Outside, a car alarm blared in the distance, reminding them both of their last failed attempt at a bingo hall heist. The afternoon sun filtered through dirty blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the table. "I don't know," Bill said. "It feels beneath us." Molly pulled out her phone, showing him an Instagram post. "Forty grand in presents, minimum. Plus artisanal cake with gold leaf from that bakery on Fifth." "There's gold leaf?" "Edible gold leaf. We can fence it to that pastry chef from the cannoli incident." Bill sighed, reaching for his windbreaker with the embroidered sailboat. "Fine. But I'm not crawling through a ball pit. I have dignity." "No ball pits. Just a bouncy castle." "Worse. My knees." "We'll bring your compression socks." Bill buttoned his jacket, checking his pockets for the nitroglycerin pills he probably wouldn't need. "One condition. If we get pinched, I want the full theatrical treatment. Handcuffs, the whole bit. I want that dad to know he was outsmarted by professionals." "Deal," Molly said, folding the blueprint. She gathered her equipment bag, checking for lock picks disguised as party straws and chloroform shaped like markers. "Now grab the gift bags. We're going in as the entertainment." "We're doing magic?" "No, Bill. Face painting." "Dear God." "Focus. You're Uncle Jerry from Cincinnati, and I'm allergic to gluten."