Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8V0CRSC0K11TA6YKQNZS1X

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of the rusted van, anchoring its corners with a juice box, a half-eaten granola bar, and a promotional stress ball shaped like a giraffe. The map had been rendered entirely in crayon, which was the only writing implement available in the glove compartment, a fact that spoke volumes about the current standing of their operation. Bill leaned over her shoulder and squinted at the diagram. He was wearing a dark turtleneck despite it being June, because he held a steadfast philosophy about turtlenecks and professionalism that no accumulation of contrary evidence had ever managed to shake. "The bounce house is our biggest obstacle," Molly said, tapping the pink squiggle on the map. "Kids cycle through it constantly. There is no pattern and no predictability whatsoever." "I have a solution for the bounce house," Bill said. "We cut around the left side through the hedges." "There are no hedges on that side." "What if we planted some beforehand? They make fast-growing varieties." Molly chose not to engage with this and moved on. The party at 14 Clover Lane was, by all available intelligence, a considerable production. Forty-seven children between the ages of four and nine, two professional entertainers, a well-reviewed face painter named Derek who was apparently devoted to his craft, and a gift table that their inside source had described as an absolute mountain of presents. Their inside source was Molly's nephew Gerald, who had supplied this intelligence in exchange for two dollars and the permanent retirement of a nickname he considered deeply unjust. "We go in during pin the tail on the donkey," Bill said, jabbing the map. "Every kid in that yard will be distracted." "They take turns with the blindfold, Bill. It is not a simultaneous group experience." "I know. I was speaking in broad terms." "Please do not speak in broad terms during an operational briefing." The presents would be stacked on a folding table against the back fence, which opened conveniently onto a quiet alley. This was the elegant heart of Molly's plan, a design she had refined over three consecutive evenings while ignoring her landlord's increasingly baroque threats. They would park in the alley, scale the fence using the collapsible step stool that Bill had formally rechristened the tactical ladder, load the presents into matching duffel bags, and vanish before anyone finished singing happy birthday. It was clean. It was clever. It was also being executed by two people whose last successful heist had involved correctly guessing a neighbor's wifi password. "What do we tell a child who spots us?" Bill asked. "We're from the North Pole. Present audit." "That falls apart instantly. It's June." "Children will believe almost anything delivered with enough confidence." She folded up the map and tucked it away. "That is essentially why they make such appealing targets." Bill absorbed this, found it both logical and slightly troubling, squeezed the giraffe stress ball twice for luck, and declared himself ready.