Run: 2026-02-18-01KHQ91S44HXCGAKEGAK21JYH2

The rain came down in sheets outside the van, drumming against the roof in a way that Molly found deeply motivating. She spread the hand-drawn map across the dashboard, knocking an empty coffee cup onto Bill's lap in the process. Bill yelped and dabbed at his trousers with a napkin that had seen better days. He peered at the map through his thick glasses, tilting his head sideways as though the floor plan of a suburban backyard might reveal more secrets from a different angle. "The bounce house is here," Molly said, stabbing the paper with her finger. "Which means the present table has to be somewhere near the back fence." Bill squinted. "That's a flower. You drew a flower there." "That's the bounce house." "Why does the bounce house have petals?" Molly snatched the map back and stared at it. The bounce house did, somewhat undeniably, have petals. She had been distracted when she drew it, watching a documentary about decorative garden features. She folded the map with great dignity and stuffed it into the glove compartment. Their target was the Pemberton residence on Sycamore Close, where one Brandon Pemberton was celebrating his seventh birthday with approximately twenty of his closest screaming associates. The intelligence they had gathered, which consisted primarily of an invitation Molly had found blowing down the street, suggested the party ran from two until five. It was currently two forty-seven. Peak chaos. Peak distraction. Every adult within fifty meters would be locked in the thousand-yard stare of parents watching musical chairs unfold in real time. Bill pulled two large canvas tote bags from the back seat. They were from a farmers market and featured a cheerful illustration of a carrot on the side. He handed one to Molly with the solemnity of a general distributing weapons before battle. "We go in through the side gate," she said, "move along the fence line, keep low, grab the presents from the table, and we are back in the van in four minutes." "What if someone sees us?" "We are adults at a children's party. Nobody questions adults at a children's party. We look like we belong and we belong entirely." "I'm wearing a balaclava," Bill said. Molly looked at him. He was, in fact, wearing a balaclava. She had not noticed this until now, which said something about her powers of observation that she preferred not to examine closely. The balaclava was black and rolled up partially so it sat on his head like a very committed hat. "Take that off immediately," she said. "I thought it added professionalism." "It adds prison sentences." Bill removed the balaclava with the wounded expression of a man whose creative contributions are consistently undervalued. He flattened his hair with one hand and picked up his carrot bag with the other. From inside the Pemberton garden, the sound of twenty children singing happy birthday rose above the rain like a chaotic, slightly flat battle cry. It was time.