Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8PVQX7NTCXT0D7FYTQREM

The linoleum of Mabel’s Diner stuck to Bill’s scuffed boots as he leaned across a grease-stained booth, prodding a crumpled children’s party flyer with a chipped mug. Molly, gloves folded beside a half-eaten cherry pie, squinted at the flyer’s glittery “Minions Extravaganza” text and tapped the “Pile o’ Presents” bullet. The jukebox blared a warped lullaby, drowning the fryer’s hum, and a waitress’s laugh echoed. Molly slid a backyard blueprint—scavenged from Jax’s mom’s trash—across the table, pointing to a rickety fence. She marked the present pile under a rainbow tent, guarded by an inflatable Minion. Bill picked up the clown suit’s neon wrapper, nose wrinkling. He hated bright colors—his last heist was a dim library. Molly tucked Minions trivia flashcards into her jacket. Bill stared at the blueprint’s loose fence board, noting Molly tested it. He sipped coffee, mumbled agreement. The jukebox switched to an off-key Minions song, making them flinch. Molly pulled out a present list with estimated values—action figures, game consoles, Minions backpacks. Bill’s eyes widened at the console’s price tag. The diner’s clock ticked toward their test run. Molly reached under the booth and pulled out a crumpled map of the party’s indoor backup space, in case it rains. She marked a side door that leads to the garage, where they can stash the piñata if the alley is busy. Bill picked up the blueprint again, tracing the present pile’s location with his finger. He’d never stolen from kids before, but the thought of a new microwave made him ignore his guilt. Molly’s gaze was sharp, her plan meticulous—she’d scouted the party three times in the last week, noting every kid’s schedule and every adult’s blind spot. The diner’s linoleum still stuck to Bill’s boots, and he shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the bright clown suit’s wrapper peeking out from under the booth. A fly buzzed around the pie plate, and Molly swatted it away, her gloves making a soft thud. The clock ticked louder, marking the minutes until they had to leave for the test run of the fence’s loose board. Bill said, “You sure this beats the pawn shop heist we bailed on?” Molly said, “Pawn shops have alarms. Kids have juice boxes and short attention spans.” Bill said, “I’m the clown? I’m allergic to sparkles!” Molly said, “The clown called in sick. Wear the suit, juggle rubber chickens. I’ll be a caterer’s assistant, sneaking presents into an empty piñata.” Bill said, “What about Lila, the party captain with the clipboard?” Molly said, “Lila loves Minions trivia. I’ll quiz her to get past. You need a balloon animal disaster to distract kids.” Bill said, “I once made a squished octopus that made a toddler cry for an hour.” Molly said, “Perfect. Dump the piñata in the alley, split loot at the warehouse at midnight. No detours—Jax’s dad is a tech billionaire; presents have tracking chips. Soak them in soda.” Bill said, “I need a new microwave—mine died making popcorn. Can I grab a toy microwave for myself?” Molly said, “No detours. I forged a clown ID for you—put it in your pocket, don’t lose it.” Bill said, “What if the caterer asks for my ID?” Molly said, “I told you—I forged it. It’s in the suit’s pocket.” Bill said, “Will the rubber chickens be sparkles-free?” Molly said, “Yes. They’re plain yellow. Stop worrying about sparkles and focus on the heist.” Bill said, “And what if I drop the rubber chickens? The kids will laugh at me instead of being distracted.” Molly said, “That’s even better—laughter is a better distraction than a balloon disaster. Just keep dropping them.” Bill said, “What about the caterer’s boss? She might notice I’m not a real assistant.” Molly said, “The caterer’s boss is Jax’s mom, who’s busy talking to her friends. She won’t notice.” Bill said, “Can I grab a juice box while I’m there? I’m thirsty.”