Bill unfolded the crumpled napkin on the sticky diner table, smoothing the wrinkles with a reverence usually reserved for ancient scrolls or classified government documents. He tapped a grease stain with a ballpoint pen, his expression grim and focused, though the ketchup stain on his collar suggested a less than professional lifestyle. The diner was a dive, the kind of place where the health inspector came once a year just to cry, but it offered the anonymity they required. "Target is six years old. Goes by the name Timmy. Known associates include 'Grandma' and a kid with a juice box habit." "A juice box habit? That sounds serious. You’re trying to rob a first-grader. We’re professionals, Bill." Molly stared at him, the fluorescent lights humming overhead as she stirred her black coffee with a plastic stirrer. She looked tired, the kind of deep-set exhaustion that came from years of chasing incompetent getaway drivers and sleeping in safe houses that smelled distinctly of cat urine. The plan was ridiculous, bordering on pathetic, but the rent was due and their last job involving a yacht had gone south. Bill leaned in, his eyes wide with the manic energy of a man who had consumed too much coffee and not enough sleep. He pointed to a crude drawing of a house on the napkin, specifically a square window that might have been a chimney or perhaps a very small door. "I hear opportunity. The haul is significant. Legos. Video games. Maybe even a bicycle. The take could fence for four hundred bucks." Molly sighed, watching a waitress pour coffee for a trucker three booths away. She remembered the days of laser grids and museum rooftops, not sneaking past bouncy castles and avoiding hyperactive toddlers hopped up on sugar. The banality of their new career path was depressing. "And the security?" "Minimal. The party starts at 1400 hours. We go in as entertainment. I rented a clown suit. It smells like cabbage and regret, but it has pockets. The point is, we get in, we neutralize the cake, and we extract the goods while they’re singing 'Happy Birthday'. It’s the perfect window." Molly looked out the window at the rain-slicked parking lot, calculating the mileage on their getaway car and the probability of failure. She watched Bill reach into his pocket and pull out a small, disturbingly realistic plastic spider. He placed it on the napkin map with a heavy thud, right next to a stick figure drawing of a dog, his finger trembling slightly from the caffeine. "Decoy. I place this in the punch bowl. Chaos ensues. In the confusion, we swap the gift bags for decoy bags filled with flyers I stole from the lobby. We bounce over the fence using the castle and vanish." "We are not bouncing over a fence, Bill." "Trust the physics, Molly." Molly rubbed her temples, fighting a migraine that felt like a tiny construction crew was working behind her eyes. The plan was insane, bordering on suicidal for their reputation, but the rent wasn't going to pay itself. "That spider is plastic, right?" "High quality. From the dollar store." "Okay. But I’m not wearing the red nose." Bill grinned, snatching the napkin up and stuffing it into his coat pocket with a flourish of triumph. He signaled the waitress for the check, looking like a general who had just won a war, though he looked more like a lunatic who had just escaped a very gentle asylum. "Deal. You drive."