Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0243HA01V18F9J4QYC706H

Molly adjusted her night vision goggles over a neon pink party hat she’d found wedged beneath the van’s passenger seat. Beside her, Bill was carefully laminating a crumpled floor plan of the Hendersons’ split-level ranch, his tongue poking through his lips with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb rather than mapping a suburban home built in 1987. He smoothed the plastic sheet with a travel iron plugged into the cigarette lighter, filling the vehicle with the scent of hot ink and desperation. "Why do you own a laminator?" Molly asked. "Waterproofing," Bill said without looking up. "Last time you spilled Capri Sun on the blueprints." Molly snatched the plan from his hands and traced a route with her finger. They had spent three weeks casing the target, which meant enduring Chuck E. Cheese stakeouts and furtive conversations at jungle gyms. The garage was the prize. Deborah Henderson always stacked the unopened presents on the workbench before the birthday song, creating a blind spot during the inevitable piñata frenzy when parents were distracted by sugar-fueled violence and crying toddlers. Molly had bribed the neighbor’s nanny for the party schedule, trading a bottle of cheap merlot for intelligence that included a detailed description of the bouncy castle’s entrance flap. Bill added tiny dinosaur stickers to mark the choke points between the kitchen and the garage. He had also prepared two forged invitations on glitter cardstock, a necessary evil that had left their apartment looking like a disco ball exploded. Molly examined her reflection in the rearview mirror. The fake mustache itched. "If anyone asks," Bill said, adjusting his clip-on tie, "we’re the Moretti twins’ parents." "We look nothing alike." "We’ll say they take after Mom." He checked his watch, a child’s digital wristband that played a tinny version of Für Elise on the hour. "Twelve minutes until piñata time. That gives us a four-minute window while the face painter is applying glitter wings." Molly shuddered. "Glitter. The herpes of craft supplies." "Sacrifices must be made." Bill strapped a fanny pack around his waist and clicked his flashlight three times. It was their ritual, borrowed from a movie neither would admit to owning. "We grab the presents. We avoid the bouncy castle. We do not engage with the magician even if he asks for a volunteer." Molly pulled a clipboard from beneath her seat and clicked her pen with the authority of a building inspector. "And if someone catches us?" "We say we’re with the party planning committee and these gifts failed the safety inspection for choking hazards." "Smooth." "Learned from the best." Bill grinned and started the van. The engine coughed to life, already stuffed with empty gift bags and a bottle of champagne they’d been saving for what they optimistically called a real score. He adjusted his tie, which featured tiny T-rexes wearing sunglasses, and checked the rearview mirror for law enforcement that absolutely was not coming. "Let’s go steal some Lego sets," Molly said. Bill nodded. "For the record, I still say the library bake sale heist was better." "We gave the snickerdoodles back, Bill." "Only because you told that church lady you were the Cookie Monster." "It was a tactical diversion." Molly shoved him toward the door. Together they crept toward a house blasting an unholy remix of the Baby Shark song, two grown adults preparing to become the most hated people at a six-year-old’s birthday party.