Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFFFVR7FMH88AMQKVD03N9T

The van smelled like stale coffee and regret. Molly spread a crumpled napkin across the steering wheel and began drawing with a dying ballpoint pen. "Here's the target," she said, sketching what looked less like a house and more like a lopsided pancake. "Henderson's backyard. Three o'clock Saturday. Thirty-seven confirmed children." Bill leaned over from the passenger seat and studied the drawing. "That's supposed to be a fence?" "It's a top-down view of the entire property, Bill. Work with me." "Right, right. Top-down." He squinted harder. "Is that the bouncy castle or the dog?" "It's the trampoline. The bouncy castle is this rectangle here." She tapped two jagged lines. "The party runs from two to four. We go in at two-thirty, during the cake reveal. Everyone gathers around the cake. Nobody watches the gift table." Bill nodded slowly, then reached into the backseat and pulled out two black turtlenecks. He held one up. It was child-sized, clearly bought from a discount bin at a department store. "These'll fit," he said confidently. "That's a six-year-old's shirt." "It's slimming." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "We don't need costumes. We just need to walk in through the side gate, blend in for forty-five seconds, load the gifts into a cooler, and leave. That's it. The simplest operation of our careers." "Our careers," Bill repeated, with a kind of wistful pride. "Feels like just yesterday we were boosting that antique dresser from the church rummage sale." "We didn't steal it. You left forty dollars on the counter and took it anyway." "Still counts." Molly ignored him and continued her briefing. "The hostess, Karen Henderson, is a planner. Every detail is scheduled. Two-fifteen, musical chairs. Two-thirty, cake. Two-forty-five, pass the parcel. That's our window. Pass the parcel is chaos. Children screaming, wrapping paper flying everywhere. We slide in, load the gifts from the side porch into the cooler, and walk out like we belong there." "Belong there," Bill said, practicing his casual posture. He leaned against the dashboard in a way that looked like he was being detained. "You look like you're surrendering to police." "I'm relaxing." "Relax harder." He adjusted himself, slumping further. Molly studied him and sighed. "Good enough. Now, the cooler has wheels. Quiet wheels. I tested them on the kitchen tile. Silent as a whisper." "When did you test them?" "Tuesday night. Woke up at four in the morning just to hear them roll across the linoleum." Bill stared at her. "You're a terrifying woman." "Thank you." "What's our exit strategy?" "Through the side gate, down Maple, turn left on Birch, and the van is parked behind the library. We're gone in eight minutes." "And if someone sees us?" "Then we tell them we were hired by Karen to move the gifts to the car for safekeeping. She won't remember hiring us because she never did, but she also won't remember not hiring us because it's a party with forty children and she hasn't slept since Wednesday." Bill grinned. "You've really thought this through." Molly folded the napkin and tucked it into her pocket. "Bill, we're stealing presents from children. We either think this through or we go to jail wearing turtlenecks that fit twelve-year-olds." He held up his turtleneck. It was purple with a small cat face on the collar. "Where did you even buy this?" "Tuesday. Same trip as the wheels." Molly started the van. Somewhere on Birch Street, a child laughed without knowing what was coming.