Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WMS7VCG3B9WJ2MG96M8ZH

Molly spread the hand-drawn map across the hood of the van, smoothing out the crayon marks with the back of her hand. It was the best intelligence they had, lifted from the recycling bin of one Timmy Henderson, age seven, who had helpfully illustrated his entire backyard in purple and green marker, including the precise location of the bouncy castle, the snack table, and most importantly, the gift station. Bill leaned over her shoulder, squinting. He smelled like the gas station coffee he'd been nursing for three hours and the regret of every life decision that had led him to this parking lot. "Why does that look like a dinosaur?" he asked, pointing to what was clearly labeled PRESENTS TABLE. "That's his dog, Bill. The presents table is the rectangle next to it. Focus." Bill rubbed his temples. The plan was simple in theory. The Henderson party kicked off at two o'clock. Twenty-three children had confirmed attendance, which meant twenty-three presents, conservatively valued at thirty dollars apiece. That was nearly seven hundred dollars in retail merchandise, and Molly had already secured a buyer — a woman named Darla who ran a booth at the flea market and asked no questions about anything, ever, including why two adults in their forties would arrive with a garbage bag full of wrapped gifts clearly addressed to someone named Timmy. "Walk me through entry again," Bill said. "Side gate. The latch is broken. Timmy's mom complained about it on the neighborhood Facebook group, which is how I found this job in the first place. We go in during the magic show." "There's a magic show?" "Gary the Magnificent. He performs at every party in a six-mile radius. Forty-five minute set. Heavy on audience participation. The kids will be hypnotized. The parents will be on their phones. We grab the gifts off the table, load the bags, and we're out through the gate before Gary even pulls the rabbit out." Bill stared at the crayon map as though it might reveal some hidden wisdom. A stick figure dog stared back at him with hollow, knowing eyes. "What if a kid sees us?" "We wear the costumes," Molly said, reaching into the back of the van and producing two foam character suits. One was a bright yellow duck. The other appeared to be some kind of legally distinct princess. "I'm not wearing that," Bill said. "You're wearing the duck, Bill." "I meant either of them. This is insane. We're robbing children." Molly folded her arms and fixed him with the stare she usually reserved for jammed locks and uncooperative accomplices. The afternoon sun beat down on the strip mall parking lot. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm went off and nobody cared. "Last week you broke into a veterinarian's office to steal fish antibiotics." "That was medicinal." "You sold them on eBay." Bill opened his mouth, closed it, and reached for the duck costume. The zipper stuck halfway, which felt appropriate. Everything about this job felt stuck halfway between absurdity and desperation, and Bill had long since stopped trying to tell the difference. "Fine," he said. "But I want seventy percent." "You'll get fifty and a juice box if they have extras." Bill considered this. It was, he realized, the best offer he'd had all month.