Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AG2S4VKT3J0JZHM0JF3Y9

The rain pattered a lazy rhythm against the windshield of the stolen van, mingling with the faint hum of the heater struggling against the autumn chill. Molly pored over a crumpled floor plan of the Henderson residence while Bill munched on what might have once been a sandwich. "Alright, listen up, partner," Molly began, unfolding a neon-colored crayon drawing that looked suspiciously like a toddler's masterpiece. "Target is the Henderson house. Three-bedroom ranch, big backyard festooned with enough balloons to accidentally asphyxiate a small child." Bill swallowed hard, then grinned. "Reminds me of my cousin’s birthday back in ‘98. Except that time the balloon animal popped and the kid cried for six hours." "Focus, Bill. We hit during the party at 2 PM. Standard birthday affair—forty screaming rug rats, hyperactive parents, and exactly zero security systems that actually work." Bill scratched his stubble with the map. "You sure about that? I saw something shiny in the window earlier. Could’ve been a diamond engagement ring... or a motion sensor." Molly snatched the map back. "Positive. Aunt Karen already scoped it yesterday. She said Mrs. Henderson’s got a thing for ‘old-fashioned hospitality’—which means her idea of security is a chihuahua named Killer and a deadbolt no one bothers to lock." "Deadbolts ain’t nothing," Bill scoffed, flexing his fingers. "I’ll kick it in. No problemo." "Bill, the door’s aluminum. You’ll sprain your toes and alert half the neighborhood. We go in quiet—through the sliding glass door in the back. It’s unlocked because Mrs. Henderson’s too busy supervising the cake to remember." Bill nodded sagely. "Sneaky. I like it. Plus, sliding doors are easier to pry than kick." "Exactly. Once inside, we move fast. Grab the presents from the living room, stash them in the duffel bags, and out the same way. No monkey business. No ‘quick candy grabs’ like last time." "Hey, in my defense, the kid was offering Skittles. I had to reciprocate." Molly exhaled sharply. "Bill." "Fine, fine. No sampling the merchandise. But what about the dogs?" "Dogs?" "The chihuahuas. Aunt Karen said there’s two now. Killer and... Tiny Death." "Bill, they’re named Killer and Tiny Death but they’re smaller than my forearm. We toss a few treats over the fence. Distract ‘em long enough to slip in." Bill wiped his palms on his pants. "Treats? You carry dog treats?" "Not yet. But I will. Convince somebody at the pet store I’m a nice dog mom by noon tomorrow." Bill burst out laughing. "You’re gonna try and buy treats by looking pitiful? That’s your plan?" "That, or I’ll just take some. Nobody’s gonna stop me." "Fine. Distraction plan: check. Entry plan: check. Escape plan: uh... we just run, right?" Molly groaned. "Bill, we’ve rehearsed this. We park the van two blocks away near the park. If we’re spotted, we blend in with the soccer moms and dads picking up kids. We’ll be fine." "But what if someone recognizes the van?" "It’s stolen, Bill. No license plate. We stripped the seats. Covered in blankets. Nobody’s matching us to a crime scene." Bill rubbed his temples. "You make it sound so easy." "It *is* easy. It’s a kids’ party, not Fort Knox." "Then why are we whispering?" Molly blinked. Outside, a Mom’s Taxi van pulled up bearing a sticker that read ‘World’s Okayest Driver.’ A small child bounded out, screaming about cupcakes. Molly and Bill exchanged a look. "…We’ll be fine," Molly repeated, voice cracking slightly. Bill nodded. "Cool cool cool." They sat in silence for a moment, the reality settling like the rain on the windshield.