Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZTSTK0TX6GTVKJR0CAVCRH

Molly spread the blueprint across the sticky diner table, narrowly avoiding a puddle of maple syrup that had been there, by Bill's estimation, since the Carter administration. The blueprint was, in fact, a hand-drawn map on the back of a Chuck E. Cheese placemat, but Molly had insisted on calling it a blueprint ever since she'd watched Ocean's Eleven for the fourth time last Tuesday. "The target," she announced, tapping the map with a crayon, "is the Henderson residence. Saturday, fourteen hundred hours. Little Tommy Henderson turns seven." Bill squinted at the drawing. "Why is the house shaped like a potato?" "It's not a potato, it's the house." "It's a potato, Molly." "It's reconnaissance art, Bill. I was sketching from the bushes and a sprinkler went off." She crossed her arms. "Do you want in on this or not?" Bill stirred his coffee with the wrong end of a pen. He had been Molly's partner for six years, and in that time they had successfully stolen exactly one thing: a garden gnome, which Molly had returned a week later because it kept staring at her while she slept. The rest of their capers had ended variously in sprained ankles, misdemeanor charges, and one memorable incident involving a petting zoo that neither of them spoke about anymore. "Presents, Bill," Molly continued, eyes glittering. "Think about it. Upper middle class neighborhood. Grandparents flying in from out of state. We're talking PlayStations. Tablets. Those little hoverboard things that catch fire." "Those catch fire, Molly." "Then we fence them quick." He sighed and picked up the crayon. "What's the plan?" "Simple. We show up in disguise. Blend in. Identify the gift table. Extract the loot during cake time when every adult in that house will be staring at a seven-year-old trying to blow out candles with the lung capacity of a damp kazoo." "Disguise how?" Molly produced, from a grocery bag at her feet, two enormous fuzzy costumes. One was a purple dinosaur of questionable copyright status. The other appeared to be a dog, or possibly a bear, or possibly a manifestation of something that had gone wrong in a factory overseas. "I'm not wearing that," Bill said. "You are the dog." "That is not a dog." "Children's entertainment, Bill. The mother booked a character performer. I called and canceled. We are the replacements." "You called and canceled a child's birthday entertainment." "For the greater good." Bill held up the brown costume. One of its eyes was noticeably higher than the other, giving it the expression of something that had recently been electrocuted. He thought about his life choices. He thought about his mother, who had wanted him to be a dentist. He thought about how much a PlayStation went for these days. "Fine," he said. "But I get first pick of the loot bags." Molly grinned and raised her coffee cup. "To crime." "To crime," Bill muttered, and clinked.