Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ951ERMR08MD5G03709YCZP

The air inside the 2004 Honda Odyssey smelled faintly of damp dog and desperation. Molly pressed her face against the glass of the passenger window, her binoculars fogging up every time she exhaled. Across the street, an inflatable bounce house shaped like a lopsided castle groaned under the weight of twelve sugar-crazed second graders. It was a chaotic scene of suburban revelry that masked a bounty of untended riches. She adjusted the focus dial, zeroing in on a gift table overflowing with primary-colored wrapping paper and oversized bows. It was a treasure trove of plastic dreams, high-end gadgets, and generic gift cards that she and Bill intended to liquidate by sundown. Check the perimeter again, Bill. We are on a clock, Molly said, her voice a tight whisper. Bill sighed and reached into a greasy paper bag. It is a cul-de-sac, Molly. The only perimeter is a picket fence and a very judgmental mailbox. Want a nugget? Focus, Bill. This is the big one. We are talking high-yield electronics and LEGO sets, she snapped. She returned her gaze to the target house. To any casual bystander, the suburban split-level was a temple of quiet domesticity, but to Molly, it was a high-value fortress protected by a Ring doorbell and a mother who had reached her psychological limit. Molly consulted her map, which was actually a frantic series of scribbles on a pepperoni-stained pizza flyer. She pointed toward the side gate where an aging golden retriever lay pancaked in the grass, his tail occasionally thumping the dirt in a rhythm of pure laziness. He was the only guard on duty. I still think the clown outfit is overkill. I look like a nightmare had a mid-life crisis, and I am not even sure these shoes are legal for driving, Bill remarked while wiping mustard off his ruffled collar. The greasepaint on Bill’s face was already beginning to slide into his thick beard, giving him the appearance of a man who had survived a colorful explosion in a bakery. Molly ignored his discomfort. She was busy checking her cheap digital watch, syncing her internal clock to the inevitable moment when the centerpiece cake would emerge from the kitchen. The cake cutting is the diversion. Once the target begins his assault on the buttercream, the parents will be distracted. That is our window, Molly explained. Bill shook his head. Terminology aside, Molly, that dog looked at me with very suspicious eyes. He is a suburban dog, Bill. He can be bought with a piece of lunch meat. Did you bring the distraction protein? Bill held up a slice of ham. If he has a refined palate, we are golden. If not, I am going to lose a finger. A sudden roar of high-pitched singing erupted from the backyard. The rendition of Happy Birthday had begun. Molly gripped the door handle. She looked at Bill, who was struggling to straighten his oversized red nose while his floppy shoes caught on the floor mats. Remember, no eye contact with the toddlers. They can smell fear. Fine. But if I am forced to play freeze-dance, I am definitely out of here. Molly checked the street one last time before sliding the side door open with a metallic screech. Showtime, she said.