Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ07N5BBXHRZAJ3K7NW08FQF

Molly adjusted her night vision goggles, which kept slipping down her forehead because they were actually swimming goggles she had spray-painted black. The pastel bounce house cast long shadows across the suburban lawn, its motor humming like a sleepy lawnmower. Inside the split-level ranch, twenty sugared-up children were shrieking the lyrics to a song about a baby shark, which Molly had already decided would absolutely be her prison nickname if this went sideways. Bill crouched beside her behind a rhododendron bush, wearing a trench coat over a Spider-Man costume that was two sizes too small. He kept adjusting his fake mustache, which was shedding glue into his upper lip. Molly pulled out the blueprints. They were crayon drawings of the house’s layout that Bill had traded his lunch for at a lemonade stand. The living room was marked with an X and labeled "Loot Mountain." The kitchen had a frowny face. The bathroom featured what Molly desperately hoped was a depiction of a toilet and not a beanbag chair. Molly had serious doubts about their accuracy. "We go in through the sliding glass door," Molly whispered. Bill nodded, his mustache drooping. "What about the dog?" "There is no dog, Bill. I told you twice." "There’s definitely a golden retriever on that mailbox flag." "That’s the flag, Bill. It’s painted gold." "Then who’s been barking?" "That’s the children, Bill. They’re small children." "Keep your voice down, Bill," Molly whispered. Bill winced. "I am so sorry, boss." "Stop shedding mustache glue on the hostas." "They look just fine, Molly." Molly checked her watch, which she had stolen from a mannequin and thus did not work. She estimated they had roughly twelve minutes before the piñata ceremony, when every adult eye would be fixed on a blindfolded kindergartener swinging a baseball bat near a leased SUV. It was the perfect window. Bill reached into his coat and produced two juice boxes, offering one to Molly. She declined. He stabbed the straw into his, sipping thoughtfully. "Why juice boxes?" Molly asked. "Camouflage. If we get caught, we blend right in." "We’re forty-year-old strangers in a rhododendron bush." "Forty-year-old strangers with juice," Bill corrected. "Totally different vibe." Molly sighed heavily and studied the brightly lit target through the brush. Through the large picture window, she could see the gift table: a glittering avalanche of colorful paper and curling ribbon. There had to be at least forty presents. Maybe fifty. Including, according to Bill’s intelligence, a bicycle, three gaming consoles, and something called a "FurReal Friend" that Bill claimed fetched two grand on the black market. Molly doubted this sincerely, but she had learned never to question Bill’s black market connections after he had successfully fenced three hundred pounds of stolen Halloween candy to a dentist in 2019. "All right, here we go," Molly said. "Phase one: I distract the clown. Phase two: you grab the gifts. Phase three: we escape through the side yard and rendezvous at the getaway car." "Roger that, boss." "The getaway car is your mom’s minivan," Molly reminded him, "so no burnouts this time." "That was one time, Molly. She got the tire marks off the court." "Try not to trip on the clown shoes." "I make no promises." Molly pulled her black swim cap lower over her eyebrows and scowled. "Let’s go steal some Legos."