Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFK8Z1CTPKPTF7GCTT0AVS3

The basement apartment smelled like stale coffee and bad decisions. Molly spread a crumpled napkin across the table and smoothed it flat with both hands, as though it were the blueprints to Fort Knox rather than a rough sketch of the Henderson backyard, complete with a wobbly tree and what appeared to be either a trampoline or a very ambitious wading pool. "Alright," she said. "The party starts at two. Parents will be in the kitchen microwaving pizza rolls by two-fifteen. We go in at two-twelve." "Two-twelve," Bill repeated, nodding slowly. He was leaning back in a folding chair that creaked with every breath. "That's specific." "The window between 'kids are excited to see each other' and 'kids are distracted by cake' is approximately ninety seconds. That's our window." "Ninety seconds to steal from children." "Fourteen children, Bill. Fourteen presents. That's roughly six-point-four seconds per present. I've done the math." Bill leaned forward. "What about Mrs. Patterson's dog? She's got that terrier. That thing's got the eyes of a war veteran." "Biscuit is not a concern." "Biscuit attacked the mailman last Tuesday. The man needed *butterflies*." "Butterflies?" "Butterfly stitches. On his forearm." Bill held up his own forearm to demonstrate the location of the injury. "Molly, I'm telling you, that dog has a body count." "Biscuit will be locked in the bedroom. I confirmed this with the Henderson's dog walker." "You interrogated the dog walker?" "I made conversation. At a dog park. Casually." Molly reached into her jacket and produced a small photograph of the Henderson house. "Now. The back gate has a latch, not a lock. The patio door is sliding, which means it's essentially decorative. The presents are located—" she tapped the napkin with a pen "—right here, beneath the banner that says 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY MASON' in very aggressive glitter." "Aggressive glitter." "It's the kind of glitter that gets in your soul, Bill. It doesn't come off. We're going to look like we robbed a fairy craft supply store." "That's a risk I'm willing to take." Molly studied him. "Are you? Because last time you compromised the operation." "I did not compromise the operation." "You said 'excuse me' to a motion sensor." "It had feelings." "It's a *sensor*, Bill." "You don't know that." Molly exhaled through her nose and folded the napkin back into her pocket. "We go in through the back gate. We slide open the patio door. We collect the presents—every single one—into the duffel bag. Then we exit the way we came. Total time in the house: under forty-five seconds. No one sees us. No one hears us." "What about the piñata?" "What about it?" "It's shaped like a dinosaur. I want the dinosaur." "Bill, we are not stealing a piñata." "You said steal all the presents." "A piñata is not a present. It's an experience." "Then consider my experience a gift to myself." Molly stared at him for a long moment. Then she sighed, reached into her bag, and produced a second, smaller napkin sketch of the dinosaur piñata from three different angles. "Fine," she said. "But you carry it." Bill smiled. "Molly, I would carry that dinosaur to the ends of the earth." "Don't make it weird, Bill." "Too late."