Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the sticky diner table, smoothing out the crayon-smudged edges with her fingertips. The blueprint had cost them two juice boxes and a pack of fruit snacks, courtesy of a very entrepreneurial six-year-old named Timmy who apparently held grudges against the birthday boy. Bill studied the layout of the Hendersons' backyard, his brow furrowed with the intensity of a man planning to infiltrate Fort Knox rather than a suburban bounce house party. "We go in through the side gate during musical chairs," Molly whispered, tapping a spot marked with a wobbly red X. "Every kid and parent will be distracted." Bill nodded slowly, pulling out a pair of oversized sunglasses and a balloon animal kit from his coat pocket. His disguise needed work, but commitment was never his problem. Intelligence, perhaps. Commitment, never. "What about the dog?" he asked. Molly produced a Ziploc bag full of bacon treats and smiled the way a woman smiles when she has accounted for every variable, including a geriatric golden retriever named Sprinkles. The presents would be stacked on a folding table near the garage. Fifteen gifts, mostly wrapped in dinosaur paper. Easy targets. Beautiful, rustling, ribbon-topped targets.