Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ07BRMDJHAFKQG78BVXC7T2

Molly spread the blueprints across the kitchen table, weighing down the corners with half-eaten granola bars and a snow globe she'd nicked from a hotel in Reno. Bill leaned in, squinting at the diagram like a surgeon studying an X-ray, except the patient was a bouncy castle. "The party starts at two," Molly said. "We go in at two-fifteen." "Why two-fifteen?" Bill asked. "Magician arrives at two. Every parent crowds around. Nobody watches the pile of presents when there's a man pulling scarves out of his mouth." The target was a modest colonial on Elm Street, the kind of place with a garden gnome collection and a welcome mat that said "Bless This Mess." Inside, the Hendersons were throwing a birthday party for their daughter, Madison, age seven. The RSVP list showed forty-two confirmed guests, most of them small, sticky, and entirely indifferent to their surroundings. It was the perfect environment for chaos—pure, uncut, frosting-smeared chaos. Bill traced a line from the back door to the living room with his finger, the way a general might plan a cavalry charge. He paused when he noticed the notation about a golden retriever. "What about the dog?" he asked. "Loves everyone. Bring treats and he'll follow you to the ends of the earth." "And security?" "Ring doorbell. One camera. We go around back." Bill nodded. He liked plans that were simple. Molly tapped a red circle she'd drawn around the living room, where she estimated the presents would be stacked on a folding table near the sliding glass door. The plan was to load them into a recycling bin, wheel it to the curb, and transfer everything into their van parked two houses down. Three minutes, tops. "Three minutes for forty-seven presents?" Bill asked. "I counted the Amazon boxes on their porch. Fourteen shipments. This kid is drowning in merchandise." They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the magnitude of the haul. Molly poured two cups of coffee and slid one across the table. Bill wrapped his hands around it like a man receiving communion. He had to admit, the plan was clean. Elegant, even. Use the magician as a distraction, the clown's arrival as cover for their entry, and the recycling bin as their Trojan horse. It was almost too easy, which meant it was either brilliant or a catastrophe in disguise. "There's one more thing," Molly said. "The piñata." "What about it?" "It's shaped like a unicorn. We take it too." Bill opened his mouth to object, then closed it. He'd learned long ago that certain battles weren't worth fighting, and piñatas were definitely one of them. Molly had an almost supernatural weakness for anything shaped like a horse with a horn, and no amount of professional discipline would change that. "Alright," he conceded. "Van, clown, bin, presents, piñata. What could go wrong?" Molly smiled the way people smile when they've had either a brilliant idea or a terrible one and can't tell the difference yet. "We'll need party hats," she said. "To blend in." "Of course we will." She reached under the table and produced a shopping bag filled with glittery cone hats in every color of the rainbow. Bill put one on without being asked. It sat crooked on his head, the elastic string tugging at his chin. They looked at each other across the table—two professionals, two fools, two people about to rob a seven-year-old's birthday party—and neither could keep a straight face for longer than three seconds.