Molly spread the hand-drawn blueprint across the sticky table at Denny's, knocking over a small tower of creamer cups. The crayon lines were smudged in places where she'd erased with her thumb, but the layout was unmistakable: a suburban backyard complete with a bouncy castle, a folding table marked PRESENTS in aggressive red lettering, and what appeared to be a pony standing near the fence. "There's a pony?" Bill asked, leaning forward. "There's a pony," Molly confirmed. "His name is Butterscotch, and he bites." "How do you know his name?" "I did reconnaissance. I dressed up as a clown and walked past the house three times. The mother came outside and told me to stop frightening the neighbors." Bill rubbed his temples. He had not slept well. He had not slept well in years, but last night was particularly bad because Molly had called him at two in the morning to say she'd identified a soft entry point near the recycling bins. "Okay, walk me through the timeline," he said. "The party starts at noon. Pin the tail on the donkey runs from twelve fifteen to twelve thirty. That's our window." "Fifteen minutes? That's tight, Molly." "It's plenty. Those kids will be blindfolded and spinning. They won't see a thing. Half of them will be crying. Trust me, I've been to children's parties. It's chaos. Beautiful, exploitable chaos." "And the parents?" "Wine. They'll have wine by twelve oh five. I've studied the Facebook group. These parents drink like they're trying to forget something." Bill stared at the blueprint. Something nagged at him. He pointed to a series of small X marks along the perimeter of the yard. "What are these?" "Dogs." "How many dogs?" "Eleven. It's also a dog's birthday, apparently. The family is unhinged." Bill sat back in the booth and let out a long breath. A waitress refilled his coffee without making eye contact, which he appreciated. He was wearing a black turtleneck at nine in the morning and did not want to explain himself. "Why are we doing this again?" he asked. "Because little Aiden Peterson told my nephew that Santa isn't real, and his mother laughed about it at book club. This is justice, Bill." "This is felony larceny." "It's misdemeanor larceny at best. I priced the gifts. We're looking at maybe two hundred dollars in Legos and gift cards to Target." "So we're risking arrest for two hundred dollars in Legos." "And the principle of the thing. Don't forget the principle." Bill picked up a crayon and drew a small arrow near the recycling bins. He hated himself for how quickly his mind started solving the logistics. The bouncy castle provided natural sound cover. The pony would be a distraction. If they timed it right, they could load everything into a wagon and walk out looking like late-arriving guests. "We'll need disguises," he said quietly. Molly grinned and reached under the table, producing two full clown costumes. "Way ahead of you."