Run: 2026-03-18-01KM079HZQ38TMFN354BDWKDZ5

Molly spread the floor plan across the back seat of their van, pinning it down with a chipped mug and a box of snack crackers that had gone stale sometime in the previous century. Outside, rain ticked softly against the windshield. Inside, Bill was chewing a pencil and trying to look like a mastermind, which he did not. He looked like a man who had once attempted to assemble a bookshelf and been personally defeated by a hex key. “The target,” Molly said, tapping the paper, “is a children’s birthday party. Twelve kids, two parents, one clown, and a bouncy castle. Security should be laughable.” Bill raised an eyebrow. “You’re saying that like it isn’t already laughable because there’s a clown.” “I’m saying the clown is our biggest unknown variable.” “The clown’s name is Mr. Waffles.” Molly blinked. “That doesn’t reassure me.” Bill pointed at a little box on the map. “The presents are stacked here. Against the wall. Right by the cake table.” “Convenient.” “Suspiciously convenient.” Molly leaned back, folding her arms. “It’s a children’s party, Bill. They’re not guarding the gifts like crown jewels.” “You say that now,” he muttered. “But the second one of those tiny maniacs spots us, they’ll start screaming at a frequency that shatters glass.” “Then we don’t let them spot us.” Bill looked at the van’s interior mirror. “We’re very good at not being spotted until we are. Then we become memorable.” Molly smirked. “That’s why we’re professionals.” He snorted. “That’s why we’re unemployed.” She ignored that. “We go in through the side gate during the singing portion. Everyone’s attention will be on the cake. You wear the delivery uniform.” Bill stared at her. “The uniform with ‘Party Equipment’ printed on the back?” “Yes.” “The one that came with the reflective strip?” “Yes.” “The one that makes me look like a nervous traffic cone?” Molly nodded. “Exactly. People trust a nervous traffic cone. It says ‘I’m here to help, but also I’m deeply confused.’” Bill rubbed his face. “And what are you wearing?” “A parent.” He frowned. “A parent?” “Clipboard, sensible cardigan, emergency wipes. I’m going as someone who has never once had fun and has never forgiven anyone for it.” Bill laughed despite himself. “You do have the aura.” “I know.” He squinted at the plan again. “How many presents are we talking?” “According to the invitation, twenty-three.” “Twenty-three presents,” he repeated, reverent now. “That’s a lot of wrapping paper.” “That’s a lot of opportunity,” Molly said. “We’re in and out before the kids finish ‘Happy Birthday.’” Bill tapped the page. “And if the clown blocks the exit?” Molly considered. “We improvise.” “I hate improvise.” “You love improvise.” “I love it in theory. In practice, improvise is how we once ended up hiding in a hedge while a bride screamed at a goose.” “That was not my fault.” “It was entirely your fault.” “It was the goose’s fault.” Bill folded the map with great care. “All right. But I want it on record that stealing presents from children is, morally, a little sticky.” Molly reached over and plucked the pencil from his teeth. “Bill, we are not stealing from children.” He stared at her. “We are liberating gifts from an overdecorated, underprotected suburban distribution center.” His mouth twitched. “That is the most dishonest sentence you’ve ever said.” “And yet,” she said, opening the van door, “it’s somehow the one with the best lighting.” Bill sighed, grabbed the delivery uniform, and followed her into the rain. “If this goes wrong,” he said, “I’m blaming the clown.” Molly smiled into the dark. “If this goes right, Bill, we’re never speaking of it again.”