Run: 2026-02-18-01KHQ92328DS3ADDT1JN8X26FA

The rain hammered against the windshield of Bill's rusted Ford Escort, which he had optimistically named The Silver Bullet despite it being neither silver nor bullet-shaped. Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the dashboard, using a juice box she had found under the seat to hold down one corner. Bill squinted through the foggy glass at the brightly colored balloons tied to the mailbox of 14 Primrose Avenue. A banner reading HAPPY 7th BIRTHDAY SOPHIE flapped aggressively in the wind, as though warning them away. "That bounce castle is a problem," Molly said. Bill nodded slowly, chewing the end of his pen. "Why?" "Because Jenkins is on lookout and he's terrified of anything inflatable since the lilo incident." Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. The lilo incident was never to be discussed, and yet somehow it came up every single job. He made a mental note to fire Jenkins for the fourteenth time. Molly traced her finger along the map. She had drawn it herself using a highlighter and several colored pencils borrowed from her nephew, and it looked less like a tactical blueprint and more like something a fairly talented badger might produce. Nevertheless, she was proud of it. "The presents are all piled in the conservatory," she said. "I counted at least forty boxes when I did the reconnaissance." The reconnaissance had involved Molly walking past the house twice while eating an ice cream, but she felt this was underplaying it. Bill leaned over to examine the map, accidentally sitting on the juice box, which exploded and soaked his left trouser leg. He did not react. He had been through worse. Much worse. "What about the parents?" he asked. "Occupied. They've hired a magician named The Magnificent Gerald. Based on his Yelp reviews, he'll have everyone distracted for at minimum forty-five minutes while he attempts to find a coin he lost behind someone's ear in 2019." Bill drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Outside, a small child in a princess dress ran across the lawn, shrieking with the particular unhinged energy that only birthday cake and unlimited squash can produce. Three more children followed, equally feral, equally committed to shrieking. "There's a lot of them," Bill observed. "Children are loud but they're short," Molly said, with the casual confidence of someone who had clearly not thought this through. Bill reached into the backseat and retrieved two party hats, handing one to Molly. She stared at it. It had a small pom-pom on top and printed glittery text that read PARTY ANIMAL. "Absolutely not," she said. "We blend in." "Bill, we are both in our forties." "We blend in as adults at a children's party." Molly looked at the hat. She looked at Bill. She looked back at the absurd spectacle of joy unfolding on the lawn of 14 Primrose Avenue, and then she put the hat on. "Right," she said. "Let's rob some seven-year-olds."