Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07AQ7SXXZGEA6S9BXYY49F

Molly spread a wrinkled map across the hood of a parked scooter and jabbed at a red circle drawn around a suburban cul-de-sac. “There,” she said. “The Bennett birthday extravaganza. Three clowns, one inflatable castle, and enough gift bags to stock a sad little boutique.” Bill adjusted his sunglasses, which were clearly too large for his face and made him look like a very anxious lizard. “You’re saying this is easy.” “I’m saying it’s full of sugar, balloons, and distracted adults.” Molly smiled. “Which is the same thing as easy, but with frosting.” Bill peered at the map. “I don’t love the phrase children’s party. Children have eyes everywhere.” “Not when there’s cake.” Molly tapped the blueprint she’d sketched on the back of a pizza receipt. “We go in as entertainers.” “We?” “You’re the balloon animal man.” Bill recoiled. “I don’t know balloon animals.” “You know how to twist a sock into a knot. That’s basically the same skill.” “That is deeply insulting to both socks and balloons.” Molly ignored him. “I’ll be the face-painter.” Bill stared at her. “You once painted a ferret to look like a highway patrol officer.” “It was a good ferret.” “It was a furious ferret.” From the party house down the street came a burst of shrieking laughter and the thump of bass-heavy music. A banner over the driveway read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEO! in letters the color of a tropical disease. Molly folded the map. “Listen, we need subtlety. We need charm. We need the confidence of people who have absolutely no interest in stealing from a six-year-old.” Bill leaned in. “That’s not a reassuring sentence.” “It’s a skill set.” He looked toward the house again, where parents were unloading wrapped boxes from hatchbacks and minivans. One father, carrying a gift shaped like a bicycle, already looked as though he wanted a nap and a lawyer. Bill lowered his voice. “What’s the target?” “All gifts go under the gold dinosaur tablecloth in the dining room,” Molly said. “The host will open them later during the ceremonial tearing of paper. We intercept before that.” “You’re suggesting we steal from beneath a dinosaur?” “A gold dinosaur. Keep up.” Bill rubbed his chin. “And then what? Walk out with a mountain of presents?” “No. We exfiltrate them one by one. The clown’s covered in glitter, so no one will remember us. The face-painting station creates crowd density. The pinata provides a natural distraction. By the time anyone notices the pile is gone, we’ll be three streets over drinking lemonade with our collars up.” Bill frowned. “That is a lot of moving parts for a crime involving dinosaurs and children.” Molly folded her arms. “Do you want the presents or not?” He hesitated. “What if there are very small, very determined children guarding the gifts?” Molly gave him a look. “Then you compliment their shoes and keep moving.” “That’s your plan?” “That’s my whole career.” A delivery van rolled past, splashing a row of neat paper cups on the curb. Molly watched it go, then checked her watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the magician arrives.” Bill blinked. “There’s a magician too?” “Of course there’s a magician. It’s a children’s party. They reproduce like bad decisions.” Bill took a breath and straightened his jacket. “Fine. I’m in. But if anyone asks, I’m not a balloon animal man. I’m an artistic consultant.” Molly grinned and handed him a lopsided red clown nose from her pocket. “Excellent. Consultants wear this.” He stared at it. “I hate you.” “You’re going to do great,” she said, steering him toward the house. “Remember: confidence, cheerfulness, and never, ever ask where the presents came from.” “And if the parents get suspicious?” Molly’s smile widened as the front door opened and a wave of music, sugar, and chaos rolled out to meet them. “Then,” she said, “we lean into the balloons.”