Run: 2026-02-18-01KHQ93XX8AWZMJCB39YEP6ZRB

The rain came down in sheets across the parking lot of Funzone Party Palace, which was decorated outside with approximately forty-seven soggy balloons and a banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY TREVOR in letters so aggressively cheerful they bordered on threatening. Molly sat low in the passenger seat of their stolen minivan, which they had stolen specifically because it was the least suspicious vehicle imaginable, and which now smelled overwhelmingly of goldfish crackers. She studied the building through a pair of binoculars she had borrowed from her neighbor Gerald, who believed she was birdwatching. Gerald was a trusting man. Gerald deserved better friends. Bill drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in a rhythm that had no discernible pattern and was driving Molly quietly insane. He was wearing a fleece vest, which he believed made him look inconspicuous and which actually made him look like a substitute geography teacher. "The presents will be piled near the gift table," Molly said, "which based on the window layout is somewhere in the northeast corner." Bill stopped drumming. "How do you know there's a gift table?" "There is always a gift table, Bill. That is the law of children's parties. It is as reliable as gravity." He nodded slowly, absorbing this with the careful reverence he usually reserved for weather forecasts and soup recommendations. The front doors burst open and a stream of small children poured out, chasing each other around the parking lot with the unhinged energy of creatures who had consumed an amount of sugar that would hospitalize a medium-sized adult. A clown followed them out, looking absolutely haunted. "That clown has seen things," Bill said quietly. Molly lowered the binoculars. "Focus." Their plan was straightforward, which was precisely what made Molly nervous. Simple plans had a way of becoming complicated the moment Bill got involved. Last March, a simple plan to lift wallets at a farmer's market had somehow concluded with Bill accidentally purchasing a goat named Henderson, who now lived in their garage and had eaten three of Molly's shoes. The party guests would be occupied with cake in approximately eleven minutes. They had studied the schedule, which the extremely organized parents of Trevor had posted publicly on a community Facebook group, because people simply posted everything now and Molly chose not to question her good fortune. "We walk in, we look like we belong, we load the presents into the trolley, and we walk out," she said. "What if someone asks who we are?" "We are Aunt Susan and Uncle Dave." Bill considered this. "I don't look like a Dave." "You absolutely look like a Dave." He seemed wounded by this in a way that was disproportionate and deeply personal, pressing his lips together and staring out at the rain with the expression of a man reconsidering many of his life choices. Molly checked her watch. Nine minutes until cake. She cracked her knuckles. Henderson had eaten her good shoes and somebody was going to pay for that, even if that somebody was technically Trevor.