Run: 2026-02-18-01KHQ915338MEM25VEK2RG2GYN

The rain hammered against the windshield of Bill's rusted Pontiac as he spread the hand-drawn map across the steering wheel. It had taken him three full days to complete, and Molly had to admit, for a man who still used MapQuest, it was impressively detailed. He had color-coded the entry points with highlighters and drawn tiny cartoon children near what he was calling the threat zones. "You put googly eyes on the clown," Molly said. "For morale," Bill replied, completely serious. The target was a birthday party for one Ethan Prescott, turning seven years old this Saturday at the Prescott family home on Sycamore Drive. According to Bill's intelligence, which he had gathered primarily by standing near the school fence looking suspicious, there would be approximately fourteen children in attendance. The gift table, positioned beneath the kitchen window based on previous parties held at this address, would contain an estimated forty-seven wrapped presents. Molly studied the map and tapped the area marked BOUNCY CASTLE with her fingernail. Getting through or around the inflatable structure would be their biggest logistical challenge. Children treated bouncy castles the way generals treated fortified positions, chaotically and with enormous enthusiasm. "We go in through the side gate," Molly said, "while the magician has their attention." "The magician starts at two. We have a seven minute window before the balloon animals begin." "Why does balloon animal time matter?" "Kids scatter during balloon animals," Bill explained. "Every direction. No pattern, no logic. It's chaos theory with juice boxes." Molly pressed her lips together and nodded slowly. This was unfortunately accurate. She had once attended a birthday party as a legitimate guest and still had mild trauma from the balloon animal segment. The plan itself was elegantly simple, which meant it had roughly a forty percent chance of going catastrophically wrong. They would pose as late-arriving relatives, navigate past the mother stationed at the gift table, load the presents into a canvas bag disguised as a diaper bag, and exit before the birthday cake arrived. Children under seven, Bill had theorized, paid almost no attention to adults moving purposefully with bags. They were too busy screaming. "What about the dog?" Molly asked. Bill went very quiet. "There is no dog," he said carefully. "Bill. I saw a dog door." He folded the map with the focused concentration of a man trying to delay a conversation indefinitely. The rain intensified. A passing car threw a wave of gutter water across the windshield and both of them watched it slide down in silence. "His name is apparently Biscuit," Bill finally admitted. "You named the dog." "I did some thorough reconnaissance." Molly stared at him for a long moment before returning her gaze to the foggy window and the dark suburban street beyond it. Somewhere out there, forty-seven presents sat wrapped and waiting beneath a kitchen window. Somewhere closer than she would like, Biscuit was presumably also waiting. She really needed the money.