Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZTSTX3WPF03HJVGAYJF3DR

Molly spread the blueprints across the sticky diner table, pushing aside a plate of half-eaten pancakes. Bill leaned in, squinting at the hand-drawn map like it was the Dead Sea Scrolls. "Okay, so the target is here," Molly said, tapping a red X. "The Peterson residence. Backyard. Saturday. Fourteen hundred hours." "Two o'clock," Bill translated. "That's what I said." "No, you said fourteen hundred hours." "Which is two o'clock, Bill." "Then just say two o'clock, Molly. We're stealing from a seven-year-old, not infiltrating the Pentagon." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "The birthday boy is Tyler Peterson. His parents are loaded. Grandpa owns half of Cleveland." "Half of Cleveland isn't the flex you think it is." "Bill, focus. We're looking at forty, maybe fifty presents. Quality stuff. Tablets, LEGO sets, that Barbie Dreamhouse that costs more than my rent." "Wait, what's the plan for the clown?" Molly blinked. "What clown?" "Every kid's party has a clown. We need to neutralize the clown." "We're not neutralizing a clown, Bill. We're grabbing presents off the gift table and leaving. In and out. Ninety seconds." "Clowns have peripheral vision you wouldn't believe. My cousin Denny tried to rob a circus once." "I don't want to hear about Denny." "Denny's in prison now." "Yeah, because Denny tried to rob a circus!" Bill shrugged and stole a bite of pancake. "All I'm saying is, we should have a clown contingency." Molly took a long, slow breath. "Fine. If there's a clown, you distract him." "With what?" "I don't know. Balloons. Pies. Existential dread." "I can work with existential dread." "I know you can." She rolled up the blueprints. "Now, entry point. There's a gate on the east side of the yard. The lock's a joke. I pop it, we slip in dressed as caterers—" "Wait, caterers? I thought we were going as parents." "Parents have to talk to other parents, Bill. Do you want to make small talk about school districts?" "I could make small talk." "You once told a woman at a bus stop that her baby looked like a thumb." "It did look like a thumb." "That's not the point!" Bill held up his hands in surrender. "Caterers. Fine. What are we catering?" "Nothing. We're not actually catering anything. We wear the uniforms, we carry empty trays, we walk to the gift table, we load up, we walk out." "Empty trays are suspicious." "Then put a sandwich on the tray, Bill." "What kind of sandwich?" Molly slammed her palm on the table. The syrup bottle jumped. "Whatever sandwich you want! A ham sandwich! A turkey club! A tiny diplomatic sandwich representing the United Nations! It doesn't matter!" A long silence passed between them. "Turkey club," Bill said finally. "With avocado." "Fine." "And we split the presents fifty-fifty?" "Sixty-forty. I'm the brains." "Forty-five-fifty-five. I'm bringing the sandwich." Molly stared at him. Then, slowly, she extended her hand. "Deal." They shook. Somewhere, a child was about to have a very bad birthday.