Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the sticky diner table, smoothing out the crayon-smudged edges with her fingertips. The blueprint of the Henderson household had cost them two fruit roll-ups and a favor from a kindergartner named Dustin who couldn't keep a secret to save his juice box. Bill squinted at the diagram, turning it sideways, then upside down. "That's either the back door or a dinosaur," he said. "It's the back door. Dustin is an artist." The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Twenty-six children hopped up on cake and sugar would create the perfect cover. Nobody watches the gift table when a clown is making balloon animals and a dozen six-year-olds are screaming at frequencies that could shatter crystal. Molly had timed the piñata window down to the second. When that papier-mâché unicorn burst open, every pair of eyes would turn skyward, and she and Bill would have exactly ninety seconds to load the wagon. Bill drummed his fingers nervously on the table. The last job had gone sideways when he'd accidentally joined a game of musical chairs and gotten eliminated in the second round. The humiliation still stung. "No games this time," Molly warned. "Not even freeze tag?" "Especially not freeze tag."