Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VEFTKWEDFSZYH6GVC54PB

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of the van and smoothed out the creases with her palm. The map was covered in crayon drawings of balloons and what appeared to be a poorly rendered clown. "Where did you even get this?" Bill asked, squinting at it. "I drew it from memory," Molly said proudly. "I attended the birthday party last year as a guest." "You went to a seven-year-old's birthday party." "I was gathering intelligence, Bill. That's what professionals do." Bill picked up the map and tilted it sideways. "Why is everything purple?" "It's the only crayon I had," Molly said, snatching it back. "Now focus. The presents are going to be piled in the living room, right next to the window. Standard configuration for a suburban birthday party attended by children who have too many things." Bill leaned against the van and folded his arms. "And the security situation?" "One golden retriever named Biscuit, possibly two grandmothers, and a teenage cousin on his phone who won't look up for anything short of a nuclear event." She tapped the map. "We go in through the side gate at fourteen hundred hours, which is when they cut the cake." "Why during the cake?" "Because Bill, no child on this earth looks away from birthday cake. We'll have a four-minute window minimum. Possibly five if there are trick candles." Bill was quiet for a moment. A balloon drifted lazily across the street from somewhere nearby, and they both watched it go. "I want to go on record," Bill said, "as saying this is the strangest job we've ever taken." "Stranger than the cruise ship casino?" "At least the cruise ship casino didn't have a bouncy castle as a potential obstacle." Molly clicked her pen and made a note on the map. "The bouncy castle is actually an asset. The children will be gravitationally committed to it. Motion, energy, chaos. Nobody is watching the presents." "What about the clown?" Bill asked. Molly's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. "We don't discuss the clown." "Molly." "He's a wildcard. We account for wildcards by moving fast." She rolled up the map with crisp efficiency. "In and out in under four minutes. We take the presents, we leave a fruit basket as a goodwill gesture, and we're gone before anyone notices." "A fruit basket," Bill repeated flatly. "I'm not a monster, Bill." He rubbed his face with both hands and looked at the sky like he was hoping for some kind of divine intervention. None arrived. The distant sound of children shrieking with delight floated over the neighborhood fence, carried on a warm Saturday breeze. "Fine," he said finally. "But I'm driving the van." "You always drive the van." "And yet it never feels like enough control," Bill muttered, climbing in. Molly tucked the map into her jacket and smiled. It was a good plan. It was absolutely a good plan.