The blueprint for Operation: Birthday Bash was spread across the hood of Bill’s battered sedan, the paper crinkling in the faint breeze. Bill, a man whose face seemed permanently stuck in a state of suspicious squinting, tapped a diagram of a suburban bouncy castle with a greasy finger. “Right,” he grunted, his voice like gravel in a cement mixer. “The objective is the pile. It’s always in the corner, away from the juice boxes and the sticky-fingered little terrors. We need to be in and out before the piñata is even a glint in the hostess’s eye.” Molly, who was meticulously cleaning a pair of latex gloves with a wet wipe, sighed. “Bill, for the last time, we’re not calling it ‘the objective.’ It’s a pile of wrapped presents. We’re not defusing a bomb, we’re committing grand theft against a seven-year-old.” “It’s a tactical designation,” Bill insisted, his eyes not leaving the plan. “It maintains operational discipline. Now, the primary obstacle is the parental perimeter. They’re clustered by the grill, drinking watery beer and comparing lawn mower specs. Their attention is, theoretically, at its lowest ebb.” Molly finished with the gloves and snapped them on with a satisfying crack. “Theoretically? I saw Mrs. Gable at the grocery store last week. She can spot a misplaced coupon from three aisles away. We need a diversion.” “That’s where this comes in.” Bill patted a large, nondescript cardboard box resting on the curb. “I’ve procured a standard-issue, remote-controlled tarantula. Highly realistic. Eight legs of pure, unadulterated panic.” Molly stared at the box, then back at Bill. “You’re going to unleash a giant, fake spider at a child’s birthday party? Bill, that’s not a diversion, that’s a war crime. We’ll be responsible for a generation of arachnophobes.” “Collateral damage,” he said with a shrug. “It’s a necessary sacrifice for the haul. Think of the loot, Molly! The latest video game consoles, artisanal LEGO sets, that hoverboard that’s all the rage. We’ll be kings of the pawn shop circuit.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, a headache starting to bloom. “Fine. But if one single child screams so loud it shatters a window, the deal is off. I’m not having that on my conscience. You deploy the spider, I grab the bags. We meet at the car in ninety seconds. No more, no less. And Bill?” “Yeah?” “Try not to look so much like a villain in a cartoon. You’re giving away the game.” Bill adjusted his ski mask, which he’d insisted on wearing during the planning phase “for practice.” “Can’t be too careful, Molly. It’s a jungle out there.”