Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ01PR2E4YCGTB7QEZWY0RXW

Molly spread the blueprint across the kitchen table, weighing down the corners with coffee mugs and a half-eaten bagel. The blueprint was actually a crayon drawing she'd convinced a neighborhood kid to make of the Henderson house after a week of what she called "intelligence gathering" and what Bill called "bribing a seven-year-old with gummy bears." Bill squinted at the drawing. There was a stick figure labeled "Mom" standing next to what appeared to be a volcano or possibly a birthday cake. It was hard to tell. The kid's artistic development was still a work in progress. "Okay," Molly said, tapping the volcano-cake with a mechanical pencil she'd stolen from a bank last Tuesday. "The party is Saturday. Thirty kids. Thirty sets of presents. We're talking LEGOs, video games, the works. This is the score of a lifetime." "Of a lifetime," Bill repeated. He was sitting in a folding chair that kept trying to collapse under him. "We're robbing children." "We're liberating toys from an unjust distribution system," Molly corrected. She pulled out a laminated badge that read "Uncle Tony's Balloon Animals" in a font so cheerful it could have given a person diabetes. "We go in as entertainment. Nobody questions the balloon animal guy." "You don't know how to make balloon animals." "I watched a YouTube video." Bill looked at the ceiling and asked whatever deity might be listening for strength. He had done jobs before. Banks. Jewelry stores. Once, memorably, a aquarium gift shop in Reno. But this was new territory. This was a six-year-old's birthday party with themed napkins and a bounce house. "The Henderson kid is turning seven," Molly continued, circling the house with red marker. "His father is a dentist, which means guilt presents. Expensive ones. The kid is getting at least two gaming consoles out of emotional compensation for all those late-night root canals." "Why don't we just rob the dad's office? He probably has nitrous oxide we could sell." "Bill. Focus. We need costumes. I've got us signed up as the balloon team. We show up at two, set up near the present table, and by three o'clock we've loaded the van with every wrapped box in the place." "And the children? The crying children? Do we just stand there while they weep?" Molly paused. For a moment, something resembling a conscience flickered across her face like a candle in a drafty room. Then it went out. "We'll leave them the cake," she said generously. Bill picked up the crayon blueprint and studied the stick figure labeled "Dad" who appeared to be holding a sword or possibly a toothbrush. The kid really needed art lessons. Maybe they could use the heist money for that. "What's my role exactly?" he asked. "You're the muscle." "I weigh a hundred and forty pounds." "You're the emotional muscle. You keep the parents distracted while I make the switch. Tell them about your childhood. Tell them about the divorce. People love hearing about divorce at parties. It makes them feel better about their own lives." Molly zipped up a duffbag and tossed it to him. Inside were thirty gift bags stuffed with newspaper, wrapped in identical pink and blue tissue paper. The swap was simple: real presents into the duffel, decoy bags back onto the table. By the time little Dylan Henderson tore into his first package and found nothing but crumpled obituaries, they'd be three counties away. Bill stared into the bag of newspapers. "We're going to hell." Molly grabbed her keys and smiled. "Then we'll steal the Devil's presents too."