Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5Y8V25K83XNX52VE5HF7B

The basement room smelled of damp concrete and stale coffee. Molly, her red hair piled in a messy bun, tapped a glittery, hand-drawn map with a chewed pencil. “Okay, final run-through. The target is the Henderson residence, Saturday, 2 PM. The objective: the entire haul from little Tabitha Henderson’s sixth birthday.” Bill, a large man crammed into a small folding chair, frowned at a pastel invitation. “It says ‘Unicorn Wonderland.’ There’s going to be glitter. I hate glitter. It gets in your teeth.” “Focus, Bill. The presents will be piled *here*,” Molly said, stabbing the map near a drawing of a cake. “Parents will be distracted by cake, juice spills, and a potential meltdown when the hired ‘Princess Sparklehoof’ doesn’t show. That’s our window.” “How do you know Princess Sparklehoof won’t show?” “Because I called her this morning and offered her double to have a ‘family emergency.’ It’s an investment.” Bill nodded, impressed. “Smooth. But how do we get in? We can’t exactly blend. You’re forty, and I look like a bear who forgot how to hibernate.” “Costumes, Bill. It’s a party. We go in as entertainers. I’ll be ‘Mime-Mime the Silent Clown.’ You’ll be my assistant, ‘Bubbles.’” Bill stared. “A mime. You want me to be a mime’s assistant. At a unicorn party.” “You just carry a big, empty-looking box for ‘tricks.’ We load the presents into it. It’s foolproof.” “What’s my motivation? As Bubbles.” “You’re a sad mime who found joy. It’s a whole arc. Look, the point is, we get in, we mingle awkwardly near the gift table, we fill the box during the cake chaos, and we walk out. We’re in and out in twenty minutes.” Bill shifted, the chair groaning in protest. “What about the security?” “What security? It’s a kid’s party.” “The dad, Gary Henderson. He’s a dentist. He’s got that look. Vigilant about plaque *and* party crashers. And the kids, Molly. They’re observant. Little Tommy Henderson asked me last week why I was watching their house from a van. I told him I was a birdwatcher.” “What did he say?” “He said I didn’t have binoculars. Kids are terrifying.” Molly waved a hand. “We’ll be in character. You won’t speak. I’m a silent clown. If little Tommy interrogates you, you just… pretend to be trapped in an invisible box. He’ll love it.” Bill sighed, a low rumble. “The haul better be worth it. Last time you said ‘easy score’ we ended up stealing a collection of novelty garden gnomes.” “This is suburban prime time. Grandparents, aunts, uncles. We’re talking the latest tablets, designer kid-wear, those terrifyingly expensive American Girl dolls. It’s a goldmine wrapped in cartoon paper.” She leaned in. “Think of it, Bill. One afternoon of slight emotional scarring for a six-year-old, and we’re set for months. Minimal risk, maximum reward.” Bill studied the map, then the invitation with its cartoon unicorn. He pictured glitter. He pictured tiny, accusing eyes. He pictured Gary the Dentist’s suspicious gaze. “Fine. But I’m not wearing the striped shirt. And my invisible box will have a door. A sad mime needs an exit strategy.” “Deal,” Molly said, a grin spreading across her face. “Now, let’s practice your tragic, silent weeping. It’s key to the character.”