Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VJNXNZ2N6J7YTWNR8NV3F

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of the van and jabbed her finger at a wobbly rectangle she'd labeled "BOUNCY CASTLE" in red crayon. Several additional shapes surrounded it in blue, green, and orange. The autumn afternoon was cold and smelled faintly of someone else's barbecue. "We go in through the garden gate at fourteen hundred hours," she said. Bill squinted at the map. "You drew this in crayon." "I ran out of ink." "There are six different colors of crayon on this map, Molly." She snatched it back. "I got bored. The point is, the presents will be stacked by the cake table, which is here." She tapped a wobbly shape labeled "CAKE (DANGER)." "Why does the cake say danger?" "Last birthday party I attended, a clown materialized from behind a refreshment table. I'm not taking chances." "Fair enough," said Bill. He leaned against the van and folded his thick arms. He wore a professional expression that, on his particular face, mostly resembled mild indigestion. They had been partners for four years. In that time, they had robbed two jewelry stores, one art gallery, and accidentally a dentist's office. Stealing gifts from a seven-year-old's birthday party represented a categorical new low. Bill had mentioned this three times already. Molly had acknowledged it once and then moved on. "How many kids?" Bill asked. "Seventeen confirmed. Plus parents." "Parents are worse than kids. Parents are unpredictable." "Parents at a children's party," Molly said, "are three cups into the secret adult punch. Trust me." "There's a secret adult punch?" "There is always a secret adult punch. It is essentially a law of physics." "How do you even know that?" "I have nieces, Bill. Four of them. I have suffered." Bill tugged at his black turtleneck. Molly had insisted on turtlenecks. She had also insisted on earpieces, which turned out to be wireless earbuds attached to absolutely nothing. He looked down the alley toward the distant sound of children screaming with what he hoped was joy. "We go in, we get the presents, we are out in four minutes," Molly said. "Simple operation." "No operation is simple." "This one is simple. The only variable is a piñata." "Why is a piñata a variable?" "It's directly above the gift table. Someone swings, misses, and the whole thing goes sideways." Bill stared at her steadily. "We are stealing birthday presents from a small child's party, and your primary concern is a piñata." "It is a legitimate operational concern." "Molly." "Bill." "We are unambiguously the bad guys here." She rolled the map up with considerable dignity and tucked it beneath her arm. "We are the bad guys," she agreed pleasantly, "and we are going to be absolutely magnificent at it." Bill sighed, pulled on his gloves, and followed her toward the sound of shrieking children and someone absolutely destroying Happy Birthday on a recorder.