Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ01E1X73HRZTGAAJF823HQN

Molly adjusted her night vision goggles and stared at the suburban bungalow across the street, where a bouncy castle cast grotesque shadows in the afternoon sun. Streamers hung from the mailbox like crime scene tape. She checked her clipboard, which listed estimated resale values, guard patrols, and whether the birthday boy’s grandmother was armed. "You’re sure it’s the dinosaur paper?" Bill nodded, tightening his too-small sweaty ski mask until it squeezed his face like a stress ball. He looked less like a master thief and more like a confused blueberry. "Positive. PS5 and a drone. Three months’ rent." "It’s four in the afternoon. In July." "Never compromise the aesthetic. Also, I brought bags." He held up two pillowcases with TRICK OR TREAT printed on them in glowing orange plastic letters. Molly pinched the bridge of her nose so hard she saw constellations. Her partner had the tactical awareness of a golden retriever in a wind tunnel. "We discussed neutral colors." "They’re festive." "We’re robbing a toddler, not a dentist." The front door opened. A clown emerged holding a balloon sword that squeaked with every step. Bill suddenly yelped and ducked below the dashboard, his knees jammed against the glove compartment, knocking out the fuse for the broken air conditioning. "Is that private security?" "That’s entertainment, Bill." "We should take him out first." "We are not assaulting a clown." She unfolded the blueprint she’d drawn on the back of a pizza menu, grease stains marking both the escape route and her lunch from Tuesday. The plan was simple, elegant, and completely reliant on Bill not speaking to anyone. "Piñata chaos is our cover. Grab the gifts." Bill squinted at the yard, where a pack of children were already circling the piñata like tiny wolves who’d discovered capitalism. One of them was eating a lollipop with both hands and making direct unblinking eye contact with the van. "What if the kids fight back?" "They’re three feet tall, Bill." "I saw one eat a cupcake like an animal. No fear." Molly sighed and pulled her own mask—simple black, professional, deeply sad—over her face. She checked her reflection in the rearview and felt a profound spiritual exhaustion, the kind that only came from years of larceny with a man who used a juice pistol. "No talking. No real names. Don’t comment on the cake." "Why would I comment on the cake?" "Last time you asked about pottery class." "That was polite." "It was a felony, Bill." She started the van. The engine wheezed like a dying accordion. Across the street, the piñata rose on a rope, a glittering donkey full of cheap candy and broken dreams. A parent began playing kazoo music with aggressive relentless enthusiasm. Molly gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles matched the pillowcases. "In, out, presents only." Bill pulled out a water pistol and checked the chamber with the gravity of a hitman assembling a rifle. He wore the focused expression of a man who had once tried to rob a library because he misunderstood the term "bookie." "Apple juice. If things get hairy, sticky." Molly stared at him for a very long moment. "Why do I keep you?" "I fit through the doggy door if needed." "Fair," Molly said softly, and then put the van in drive.