Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0AP25MTGJ09NYNAM7NVVM0

Molly adjusted her night vision goggles and stared through the windshield at the suburban bungalow draped in pastel balloons. Inside, a horde of sugar-crazed seven-year-olds was systematically destroying a bounce house while a magician tried to pull a rabbit from a yoga bag. She turned to Bill, who was rubbing glitter hand sanitizer into his palms like a surgeon. "Okay, walk me through this again," Bill said. "We’re robbing a children’s party?" "We’re not robbing the children, Bill. We’re liberating unappreciated consumer goods from a post-gift-opening pile. The parents are loaded, the security is a sleepy clown, and the loot is already wrapped. It’s practically a shipping container with cake." "What if they cry?" "Then we’ll know they have healthy emotional attachments. Stay focused." Bill nodded and pulled a laminated map from his jacket. It was a crayon drawing of the backyard with labels like “Dog Zone” and “Pinata of Doom.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. The van smelled like vanilla frosting and regret. Through the window, she watched a parent in a “Birthday Squad” sash blindly hand out juice boxes to anyone with sticky hands. It was a security nightmare, meaning paradise. "I’ve got the distraction ready," Bill said. "Three dozen sidewalk chalk sticks laced with maximum sparkle density. One toss onto the driveway and those kids freeze like baby raccoons." "Good. I’ll slip through the kitchen during the conga line. The presents are staged by the back door, next to the recycling. I grab, you stack, we’re gone before the final verse of the birthday song." "Should I bring a weapon?" "You’re holding a squirt gun filled with seltzer. Non-lethal and thematically appropriate." Bill tested the squirt gun, accidentally spraying his own eye. He blinked furiously while Molly checked her watch. The party would hit peak chaos during the piñata swing, a four-minute window when every adult filmed horizontally on their phones. She researched the optimal time to hit a suburban birthday: never during face painting, always after the sugar rush but before the meltdowns. "I still think we should’ve robbed a bank," Bill muttered. "Banks have cameras. This place has a ‘Smile, you’re on camera!’ sign painted on a driveway rock. Plus, have you seen what these parents spend on STEM toys? We’re talking robotic dinosaurs and a suspiciously heavy box from a boutique I’ve never heard of." "If a kid asks why I’m taking his stuff, blame the Grinch." "Fine. But no face-painting. Last time you got a butterfly on your cheek and nearly confessed to a traffic cop." Molly handed him a black ski mask with felt cat ears sewn onto it. He looked betrayed. She shrugged and pulled down her mask, which featured a neon dinosaur. They would blend in perfectly. She opened the van door, and the distant shriek of a party horn sliced through the afternoon air like a true starting pistol. "Keep low," Molly whispered. "Try not to cry when the balloon animals pop." "I’m a professional," Bill said.