Bill spread the crayon-smudged blueprints across the coffee table, knocking over a half-empty soda. The architectural drawings showed a suburban split-level with alarming precision, including detailed annotations about the snack station's blind spots and a suspected laser grid made of crepe paper streamers. A purple stain was spreading across the corner where he'd drawn the panic room, which was actually just a laundry closet. "You cased a six-year-old's party for three weeks?" Molly asked. Bill stabbed a finger at the paper, leaving a smudge of red paint on the dinosaur stickers marking guard positions. His fingernails were already painted for his cover identity. Molly leaned over the highlighter-scented annotations, examining details about balloon placement and the dreaded Parent Patrol rotation schedule. "It's called due diligence," Bill said. "These parents hired a bounce house. Do you know the acoustic dampening that implies?" He had color-coded everything with markers that smelled like artificial fruit, creating a rainbow of criminal intent across pastel construction paper he'd stolen from the venue's craft table. The primary target was marked with a glitter star that kept shedding on the carpet. "The target is in the living room," Bill whispered. "Wrapped in paper. According to sources, it's a PS5." Molly rubbed her temples. She'd done museums and banks, but never a venue where security cried when they didn't get cake. She picked up the infiltration schedule Bill had printed on Hello Kitty stationery and wondered where her life had gone wrong. "Your sources?" "The birthday boy at karate. I take intelligence seriously, Molly. I got a yellow belt yesterday." She stared at the rubber nose and oversized shoes by the door. Bill had shaved his beard for the role, leaving him looking like a registered offender rather than an entertainer. Outside, traffic hummed past oblivious to the juice box logistics being planned inside the dim apartment. "Why not wait until after the party?" she asked, examining the getaway route. "Because the uncle takes everything to Goodwill at dawn. When the clown makes balloon animals, that's our window." "There's a clown?" "I AM the clown, Molly. Keep up with the brief." Bill checked his watch with trembling hands, then pointed to the goodie bags marked on the blueprint with a glitter pen. "What about the goodie bags? They have temporary tattoos." Molly folded her arms and tried to look menacing. "We leave them. I have standards. I've never stolen from a child." Bill's shoulders slumped, but he nodded, already reaching for the rubber nose on the counter. The afternoon sun caught the cheap plastic, casting a red glow across his serious, freshly-shaven face. He looked absolutely ridiculous and deadly serious simultaneously. "Fine. But I'm keeping the red nose for sure. And the wig is non-negotiable." "You don't have a wig." "Not yet." Molly looked at the clock. T-minus four hours until showtime. She couldn't believe she was about to commit grand larceny against a first grader, but Bill had already started applying clown white to his eyebrows with the focus of a bomb technician defusing a warhead.