Run: 2026-04-24-01KPZTWHJG2GEFVF5GBK376MGB

Molly unfurled the blueprints across the sticky diner table, smoothing them flat with a ketchup bottle and a half-eaten pickle. The layout of the Peterson residence sprawled before them in blue ink, dotted with her frantic red annotations: bouncy castle, clown zone, piñata blast radius. Bill squinted, chewing thoughtfully on a toothpick he'd been nursing since Tuesday. The birthday was Saturday. Jimmy Peterson was turning seven, and according to Molly's intelligence—gathered by loitering suspiciously near a Toys "R" Us—the gift pile would be worth a conservative four hundred dollars in unopened plastic. "Clowns terrify me," Bill muttered. Molly rolled her eyes and tapped the diagram. The plan was elegant in its stupidity. Bill would enter disguised as Uncle Rodney, a relative so distant nobody would question his cargo shorts. Molly would infiltrate via the backyard, crawling beneath the hedge like a woodland predator, and begin systematically loading wrapped presents into a hollowed-out piñata they'd prepared that morning. Extraction would occur during the candle-blowing ceremony, when parental attention peaked and security collapsed. She'd rehearsed the timing using her nephew's baptism as a dry run. "Any questions?" Bill studied the clowns. He had several.