Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8W36T5PFSJ34WRR5WMZQWN

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of their rusted sedan, smoothing out the crayon marks with the reverence of a general surveying a battlefield. The map had cost them eleven dollars and a juice box, procured from a kindergartner named Devin who had no loyalty to anyone but himself. Bill leaned over her shoulder, squinting at what appeared to be a lopsided house surrounded by stick figures and a disturbing number of suns. "Why are there four suns?" Bill asked. "Artistic license. Focus." Molly tapped a wobbly rectangle near the back of the house. "This is the gift table. Devin confirmed at least thirty presents. We're talking remote control cars, building sets, maybe even one of those tablets parents buy to keep their kids quiet at dinner." Bill scratched the stubble on his chin and frowned at the map like it owed him money. He had pulled off a jewelry store in Reno and a payroll truck outside Sacramento, but something about this particular job made his stomach clench in a way that felony grand theft never had. Maybe it was the thought of two dozen sugar-fueled six-year-olds standing between him and the exit. Maybe it was the fact that their intel came from a child who ate glue. "What about security?" "One dad on the grill, two moms at the bounce house, and a grandmother who Devin says falls asleep by two. We go in at two fifteen." Bill absorbed this. He had questions, most of them existential, but he stuck to logistics. "And the clown?" Molly paused. She pulled a folded flyer from her jacket pocket and studied it under the pale afternoon light. The party entertainment was listed as Mr. Giggles the Magnificent, a local performer who specialized in balloon animals and minor emotional trauma. His online reviews were deeply polarizing. "The clown is the wild card," she admitted. "He does his act for forty-five minutes, then disappears into the bathroom for what Devin described as a very long time. That's our window. We grab everything and we're gone before anyone notices." Bill nodded slowly, the way he always did when he was pretending to understand a plan he found deeply stupid. He had concerns. Legitimate, adult concerns, like the fact that their getaway vehicle had a check engine light that had been glowing since February, or that Molly's disguise consisted entirely of a yellow sundress and a floppy hat she had stolen from a scarecrow. There was also the matter of his own costume, which Molly had laid out on the back seat that morning without explanation or apology. A Hawaiian shirt. Cargo shorts. The other floppy hat. "I'm not wearing the hat," he said. "You're wearing the hat, Bill. We're supposed to be eccentric aunt and uncle types. Nobody questions a man in a floppy hat carrying a large bag." "Everybody questions that." Molly folded the map with the careful precision of someone who had never once second-guessed herself and tucked it back into her jacket. She looked Bill dead in the eyes with the calm, terrifying confidence that had gotten them into every terrible situation they had ever shared. "Trust the hat," she said. Bill did not trust the hat. But he got in the car anyway.