Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95KAT68V98W5SE0FK0HCV5

Molly slammed a grainy, over-saturated photograph onto the folding table. Look at it, Bill. That is the target. Bill squinted at the image, leaning so close his nose nearly touched the paper. It looks like a bouncy castle shaped like a dejected dragon. It is a fortress of inflatable polyethylene, Molly corrected, tapping a pencil against the table. And inside that fortress, in the northwest corner of the sunken living room, lies the Mother Lode. You mean the pile of boxes wrapped in dinosaur paper? I mean the haul of the century. Six Lego Star Wars sets, three remote-controlled quadcopters, and at least four envelopes containing high-denominational crisp twenties from various grandmothers. Bill whistled through his teeth. That is a lot of plastic. But what about the perimeter? The perimeter is guarded by a tier-one security force, Molly said. Specifically, twelve sugar-addled seven-year-olds and a golden retriever with a history of nipping. We enter through the kitchen window at 14:00 hours, draped in the official uniform of the catering company. Do I have to wear the hairnet again? Bill asked. It makes my forehead break out. The hairnet is non-negotiable, Bill. It provides camouflage and plausible deniability. If someone sees us, we are just the people delivering the organic fruit cups. Once the cake ceremony begins, the parents will be distracted by the singing. That is our window. And the getaway? The bouncy castle, Molly said, a predatory glint in her eye. I’ve rigged the air intake. When I pull this cord, the dragon collapses. In the ensuing chaos of screaming children and sagging vinyl, we grab the gift bags and exit through the hedge side of the yard. What if the clown shows up early? Bill asked, his voice trembling slightly. You know how I feel about the stilts. They make him too tall for a normal human. The clown is a freelancer named Barnaby, Molly dismissed with a wave of her hand. I’ve already intercepted his GPS. He’s going to be redirected to a retirement home three towns over. He will be making balloon poodles for Octogenarians while we are counting our bounty. Bill nodded slowly, tracing the map of the living room with a meaty finger. What about the gift receipts? Do we take those? Always take the receipts, Bill. We are professionals, not savages. If we can’t flip the toys on the street, we return them to the big-box stores for store credit. It’s cleaner that way. I just feel bad about the cupcakes, Bill muttered. I saw the mother posting on social media. They’re gluten-free. That’s why we’re doing them a favor, Molly snapped. Nobody wants a gluten-free cupcake. We’re liberating those children from a lifetime of dietary disappointment. Bill stood up straighter, adjusting his imaginary tie. You’re right. We’re like Robin Hood, but we keep the stuff. Exactly, Molly said, handing him a pair of tactical party hats. Now, go sharpen your cake server. We move at noon.