Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFCRZPPABGXCCS98BKSDBND

Bill spread the blueprints across the kitchen table, which were clearly just a child's drawing of a house taken from someone's refrigerator. "Alright, Molly, listen up. The target is a birthday party. Pink Streamers Hall, three o'clock." "Bill, those are crayon marks." "It's called reconnaissance." He tapped a smudged blob. "Here's the entrance. Here's where they keep the haul. And here—" he drew an X with his finger on a coffee stain— "is where we strike." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "You want to rob a six-year-old's birthday party." "Correction. I want to rob *the* six-year-old's birthday party. Little Maxwell. Parents spared no expense. I'm talking seventeen wrapped boxes, Molly. Seventeen." "Those are children's toys." "Toys we can sell." "To whom? What adult wants a plastic dinosaur set?" Bill paused, then pulled out a crumpled eBay printout. "You'd be surprised." Molly studied the drawing, squinting at what might have been a window or possibly a dog. "Fine. What's the entry plan?" "Back door. During cake time. Everyone crowds the kitchen. No witnesses. No alarms." "Kids scream, Bill." "That's why we bring the dog." "What dog?" Bill opened the back door, and a golden retriever trotted in wearing a tiny party hat. "Meet our inside man." Molly stared at the dog, then at Bill, then at the crayon blueprint. "I can't believe I left banking for this."