Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8TQN8EREZV2CFW2ZEXHBWT

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of the van, smoothing out a wrinkle that bisected what appeared to be a bouncy castle. Bill leaned over her shoulder, breathing heavily through his mouth in a way that made her want to retire from crime entirely. "Alright, listen up," Molly said, tapping the map with a highlighter she had stolen from a dentist's office. "The party starts at two. We've got a nineteen-minute window between the end of musical chairs and the beginning of cake. That's when the presents will be unattended on the folding table near the garage." "Why can't we just go during cake?" Bill asked. "Because during cake, every parent in that backyard will be standing around the table filming their kid not eating cake. It's a wall of smartphones, Bill. We'd end up on forty Facebook pages before we cleared the driveway." Bill nodded slowly, the way he always did when he was pretending to understand. He pulled a granola bar from his jacket pocket and began unwrapping it with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb. "What about the dog?" he asked through a mouthful of oats. "The dog is a golden retriever named Biscuit. I've been throwing tennis balls over their fence for two weeks. The moment Biscuit sees me, that dog is going to lose its mind with joy and follow me anywhere. I will lure Biscuit to the side yard. That eliminates our only security." "You made friends with the dog?" "I made friends with the dog." Bill chewed thoughtfully. A raisin fell onto the map and landed directly on the bouncy castle. Molly flicked it away with quiet fury. "Now here's where it gets delicate," she continued. "You're going to walk in through the side gate dressed as a clown." Bill stopped chewing. His face, already naturally mournful, took on a quality of genuine despair that Molly found theatrical and unnecessary. "I'm not doing the clown thing again," he said. "You're doing the clown thing again." "Last time I did the clown thing, a four-year-old bit me on the knee." "And you survived. You're a survivor, Bill. Now, you walk in as the clown, you tell them you're the entertainment, and while every kid in that party is screaming because, frankly, you are terrifying to look at even without the makeup, I will load the presents into the van." "What kind of presents are we even talking about? These are seven-year-olds." "Legos, Bill. We're talking about Legos. Do you have any idea what a sealed Millennium Falcon goes for online? We're looking at a potential four-figure haul." Bill's eyes widened. He folded the granola bar wrapper into a tight square and tucked it into his pocket because, despite being a criminal, he did not litter. "I'll need a bigger nose," he said finally. Molly smiled and handed him a red foam sphere the size of a plum. She had come prepared. She always came prepared. That was why she was in charge, and Bill was the clown.