Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8P2MNW2D6AXQC3J4AAGBN

The vinyl booth at Pete’s Diner stuck to Molly’s jeans as she spread a crumpled birthday party flyer across sticky Formica, lukewarm coffee sloshing in her chipped mug that read “World’s Okayest Thief.” Bill: “You’re dead serious about robbing a seven-year-old’s unicorn-themed bash? I thought we had our sights on the pawn shop safe that’s been unguarded after 9 p.m. all week long.” Molly tapped the flyer’s “No Expense Spared” banner, her neon-pink lockpick twirling between her fingers—she’d scouted the parents’ social media, saw the designer gifts piled in their sunroom that overlooked a quiet alley. Bill: “Designer gifts? For a kid who’ll chew on a diamond bracelet like a teething ring? And what about the security? Do they have a doorman or just a harried mom with a juice box stash and a phone glued to her hand?” She slid a crudely drawn blueprint of the community center party room across the table, circling a back window screened by overgrown rose bushes that hadn’t been trimmed in a year and were full of dead beetles. Molly: “No doorman—just a part-time clown and a bunch of parents too busy documenting cake smears to notice a window slider creaking open. I’ve got a fake balloon delivery uniform for you with a hidden pocket for your lockpick.” Bill fidgeted with his worn leather glove, his eyes darting to the diner’s door—he hated crowded, loud spaces, and kids’ parties were the worst kind of chaos that made his hands shake. Bill: “Fake balloon uniform? What if the clown calls me out? I can’t do a balloon animal to save my life—last time I tried, I made a lopsided snake that scared a toddler at the grocery store for hours.” Molly snickered, sipping her coffee—she’d already arranged for a fire alarm decoy, timed to go off right when the cake was cut, distracting everyone long enough to grab the gift table haul before the fire department arrived. Molly: “The clown’s on break at cake time—trust me. I’ve got an ice cream truck decoy parked around the corner for the escape; we’ll pile gifts into the freezers and drive off before anyone’s done crying about burnt sprinkles or lopsided balloon animals.” She checked her waterproof watch, noting the party’s 2 p.m. start time—they’d need to arrive an hour early to disable the window’s flimsy latch with her rust-proof lockpick set. Bill: “What about the crying kids? If one spots me, I’ll panic—last time I heard a toddler wail, I dropped my lockpick and ran from a convenience store heist mid-job, leaving my favorite glove behind.” They clinked their chipped mugs together, the diner’s jukebox blaring a tinny children’s song that made Bill’s skin crawl—he still had doubts, but Molly’s plan was tighter than her lockpick grip, and he’d learned to trust her wilder ideas after the laundromat heist paid off. Molly: “Stick these in. You won’t hear a single wail. We’ll be in and out in ten minutes, and that seven-year-old’ll be none the wiser—she’ll just think her gifts vanished into unicorn magic like her lost tooth did.”