Molly slapped the crayon-scribbled blueprint onto the card table. Her finger, jabbing with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert, traced a path through a suburban backyard. The infiltration point was a wobbly fence post, the blind spot behind an overgrown hydrangea bush. The target was a mountain of wrapped loot, shimmering under the afternoon sun. Their primary obstacle was a man in a greasepaint smile, currently assembling a unicycle. He was the wild card, the unpredictable security detail. Molly’s plan was simple, elegant. She circled the moment of maximum distraction. “We hit the gift table when the clown does the juggling.” Bill, however, was looking past the prize table, his eyes wide with a childlike wonder that was entirely unprofessional. His focus was on the colorful balloons twisting in the clown’s hands. “I hope he makes balloon animals. I really want one.” Molly’s eye twitched, calculating the new risk factor. An accomplice demanding a poodle during the heist was a complication she hadn’t planned for.