"So the party starts at two," Molly said, spreading a crayon-drawn map across the dashboard. "We've got a narrow window between musical chairs and cake." "Why can't we just go in during pin the tail on the donkey?" Bill asked. "Everyone's blindfolded." "Only one kid is blindfolded, Bill. One." "Still, that's one less witness." "There are thirty children and fourteen adults. One blindfolded six-year-old doesn't move the needle." Bill scratched his chin. "What about the presents? Where are they keeping them?" "Dining room table, northeast corner. The mother stacks them in a pyramid because she's one of those overachieving types." "I hate the pyramid stackers." "Everyone hates the pyramid stackers. Now, I go in disguised as a balloon artist. You back the van up to the patio door. When I give the signal, we load up and go." "What's the signal?" "I'll make a giraffe." "You always make giraffes. How will I know it's the signal and not just you showing off?" "Because I'll look at you while I'm making it." "What if the kids ask for a giraffe?" Molly paused. "Then I'll make a deeply unsettling giraffe." "That works."