Molly pressed her binoculars against the minivan window, watching the suburban house with intense concentration. Balloon animals bobbed in the afternoon breeze. "Seventeen kids," she whispered. "Maybe eighteen. One of them might be a very short adult." Bill squinted at his hand-drawn map, which looked more like a drunk spider had walked through ink. "So we go in through the back door during musical chairs. Nobody ever watches the presents during musical chairs." "Because they're too busy fighting over chairs, Bill. It's basically child warfare in there." "Exactly. Beautiful chaos." Molly lowered the binoculars and frowned. "What about the clown?" "What clown?" "The clown, Bill. There's always a clown." Bill hadn't accounted for a clown. Clowns were unpredictable. Clowns had big shoes and bigger egos. "We bribe him," Bill decided. "With what?" "Balloon animals. Clowns love balloon animals." Molly rubbed her temples slowly. "You want to bribe a clown with balloon animals. That's like bribing a chef with groceries." "You got a better idea?" She watched a child smash cake into another child's face through the window. Pure anarchy. "Fine. But I'm not making the giraffe. My giraffes always look inappropriate."