Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8WRDV7NCNR6ACS33PWRAGJ

The “war room” was a sticky kitchen table, currently occupied by a map drawn in crayon. Molly tapped a pink X marking the patio. “This is the primary gift stack. Usually next to the cake table. Low-hanging fruit, Bill.” Bill squinted at the crude drawing of a bounce house. “And the secondary target?” “Piñata. High risk, high reward. Mostly candy, maybe a couple of those plastic finger traps. But it’s a public extraction. We’d need a serious diversion.” “A diversion at a six-year-old’s birthday.” Bill rubbed his temples. “Remind me why we’re hitting a party for a kid named ‘Braxton’?” “Because, my risk-averse friend, it’s the motherlode. No one expects a heist at a backyard party. Security is a dad in a ‘Kiss the Chef’ apron and a hyper-vigilant golden retriever named Sparkles. Our usual rivals are casing bank vaults. We’re walking into a zone of complacency.” “Complacency and juice boxes,” Bill muttered. “What about the parents? You get a mom on her third glass of pinot grigio, she becomes unpredictably observant.” “Timing is everything,” Molly said, producing a laminated schedule. “We go in during the ‘Happy Birthday’ song. All adult eyes are on the kid, willing him not to cry. All kid eyes are on the cake. That’s our thirty-second window to clear the gift table.” “And the loot transport?” Molly held up a giant, garishly wrapped box with a loose bottom. “We arrive as caterers. ‘Party Palz.’ We load the presents into this, walk out smiling.” “Caterers? We’re wearing neon polo shirts, Mol. It’s degrading.” “So is prison orange. Which is what you’ll be wearing if you keep complaining. Now, obstacle number one: the Sentinel.” She flipped to a grainy, zoomed-in photo of a man scowling at a grill. “Uncle Derek. Off-duty security guard. He will be stationed by the gate. He checks invitations.” Bill leaned in. “And we have an invitation?” “We have *an* invitation,” Molly corrected, sliding a glitter-smeared card across the table. “To ‘Brayden’s’ dinosaur party. Three blocks away. Same time. It’s a workable fake.” “So we’re gate-crashing the wrong kid’s party to steal from the right kid’s party?” “We’re adapting to the environment. Uncle Derek sees the dinosaurs, he assumes he misheard the theme. By the time he confirms with the hostess, we’re in the wind with a haul of Lego sets and educational tablets.” Bill stared at the crayon map. “The dog. Sparkles.” “Ah.” Molly smiled. “The canine contingency.” She pulled a Ziploc bag from her pocket. “Diced hot dogs. Canine kryptonite. One toss into the petunias, Sparkles is out of the picture for a solid twenty minutes.” A long silence hung between them, broken only by the drip of the faucet. Bill finally sighed, a sound of profound professional resignation. “The things I do for a score. Okay. What’s my role?” “You’re the muscle.” “I’m confronting a six-year-old?” “You’re creating a perimeter. And handling the piñata, if the opportunity arises. Now, let’s run through the code words again. If I say ‘sunny,’ it means the coast is clear. If I say ‘naptime,’ it means abort.” “What if someone actually offers us cake?” Molly’s expression turned deadly serious. “You take the cake, Bill. You always take the cake. It’s called maintaining cover.”