Molly spread the crayon-drawn map across the sticky diner table, her eyes gleaming with the intensity of someone planning a bank job rather than infiltrating little Timmy Henderson's seventh birthday party. Bill squinted at the diagram, turning it sideways twice before accepting he had no idea what he was looking at. The intelligence had come from Molly's nephew, a deeply unreliable four-year-old who had demanded payment in fruit snacks. The target was simple enough. Thirty-seven wrapped presents, conservatively valued at four hundred dollars in Legos and video games. The obstacles were considerably more challenging. Two dozen sugar-fueled children, a bouncy castle of unknown structural integrity, and a clown named Sparkles who had done time in Reno for reasons nobody discussed at PTA meetings. "We go in as entertainers," Molly announced. Bill's face contorted into something between horror and indigestion. "I'm not wearing the costume again." "You're the only one who fits in the dinosaur suit." She slid a purple polyester monstrosity across the table. It smelled of failure and old sweat, a memento from their disastrous Chuck E. Cheese reconnaissance mission. Bill held it at arm's length, watching a button fall off and roll under the napkin dispenser.