Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9V9QYJ9AMNG95DFEJJD08

Molly spread the blueprints across the sticky diner table, pushing aside a syrup bottle and a stack of napkins that already looked like they’d seen crimes. The “blueprints” were, in fact, a folded invitation printed with balloons and unicorns. “Read it again,” she said, tapping the glittery paper like it was classified intel. Bill squinted. “You are cordially invited to Madison’s Magical Sixth Birthday Extravaganza,” he read. “Face painting, trampoline, pizza, and… gift mountain.” His eyes gleamed. “They actually wrote ‘gift mountain.’ That’s not a party, that’s an advertisement to burglars.” “Exactly,” Molly said. “Parents these days have no operational security. Clowns. Magicians. Frozen soundtrack on loop. Chaos is our camouflage.” “Never thought I’d knock over a kindergarten,” Bill muttered. “Morally, I mean. Logistically, I’m delighted.” “To be clear,” Molly said, “we’re not robbing the kids. We’re liberating the presents before attachment forms. It’s basically recycling.” “That’s not how recycling works,” Bill said. “Also, what kind of loot are we talking? Last time we did a toy-related job, I got stuck with fourteen singing hippos.” Molly pulled out a dog-eared toy catalog, pages marked with neon tabs. “Trending items: handheld game consoles, mini drones, robot dogs, and some sort of interactive unicorn that records your secrets and sells them to an app.” Bill whistled. “That unicorn’s basically in our union.” “Focus,” she said. “We blend in, we locate the gift mountain, we execute. In, out, no frosting.” “Hold on,” Bill said. “Blend in how? We don’t look like parents. We look like people who park outside banks and breathe heavily.” “Costumes,” Molly said. “I bought us disguises.” She reached under the table and produced two folded outfits: a sparkly purple cardigan and a T-shirt that read BEST DAD EVER in aggressive block letters. Bill held up the shirt. “This says ‘Best Dad Ever.’ They’ll take one look at me and know it’s a lie.” “Authenticity is overrated,” Molly said. “You’ll carry a juice box and nod at things. That’s the whole job.” “I don’t know how to talk to children,” Bill said. “Last time I tried, I accidentally negotiated a hostage situation over a balloon.” “You just have to say three phrases on repeat,” Molly said. “One: ‘Wow, how old are you now?’ Two: ‘That’s your favorite dinosaur?’ And three: ‘Ask your mom.’” “Solid,” Bill admitted. “What about you?” “I’m the cool aunt,” Molly said. “Nobody ever questions the cool aunt. We arrive with a decoy present, hand it over, clock the pile. While everyone sings, we relocate the goods to the getaway wagon.” “Wagon?” Bill blinked. “We’re using a wagon?” Molly slid over another picture, this one of a bright red Radio Flyer. “Kid’s wagon. Parents see that loaded with boxes, they assume you’re helping. We stack the real gifts on the bottom, decoy wrapping paper on top.” Bill rubbed his chin. “All right. What about the perimeter? Any chance of a bouncy castle security detail?” “The bounce house is our exit route,” Molly said. “We stash the wagon behind it. When the cake comes out, all eyes go front. We roll out back.” “And the cake is at… fourteen hundred hours?” Bill asked. “It’s a children’s party, not a prison transfer,” Molly said. “But yes, two p.m. sharp. I confirmed with the intel source.” “You mean the barista with the glitter in her hair,” Bill said. “She just said, ‘My niece is gonna be so sugared up.’” “Actionable intelligence,” Molly insisted. “Now, contingency plans. Worst case, someone asks whose kid we’re here for.” Bill frowned. “Whose kid are we here for?” “Madison,” Molly said. “That’s the birthday girl,” Bill said. “You can’t claim the host. That’s like robbing a bank and saying you’re the manager.” “Fine,” Molly said. “We’re here for… Zoe. There’s always a Zoe.” “What if there’s not a Zoe?” Bill asked. “There is always a Zoe,” Molly repeated. “If there isn’t, we abort. That’s a cursed party.” Bill exhaled slowly. “All right. One last thing. Moral check.” “Moral check?” she asked. “Yeah,” Bill said. “We’re about to knock over a six-year-old’s big day. On a scale from one to monster, where are we?” Molly thought for a moment. “We’re redistributing plastic from the over-celebrated to the under-funded.” “To us,” Bill said. “Exactly,” Molly said. “Very under-funded.” Bill studied the invitation one more time, then folded it like a mission dossier. “Fine. Let’s go rob a unicorn.”