Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G01CX5MF9Q94QS9X5AABS

Molly spread the blueprints across the sticky diner table, pinning down the corners with ketchup bottles and a half-eaten plate of hash browns. Bill peered over his coffee, squinting like he'd never seen architecture before. In a sense, he hadn't. It was a hand-drawn map of the Finkelstein backyard, rendered in crayon because Molly's printer was, in her words, "emotionally unavailable." "Okay," she said. "Tommy Finkelstein turns eight on Saturday. Bouncy castle here, piñata here, and a mountain of presents right here, behind the snack table." "Why's the snack table drawn in purple?" "Because I ran out of brown." "What's brown got to do with a snack table?" "Hummus, Bill. Focus." Bill set down his coffee with the solemnity of a man about to question every life choice that had led him to this booth. "Molly. We are two grown adults. We are planning to rob a child." "We are planning to rob a child's *party*. There's a distinction." "Is there?" "Legally? Probably not. Spiritually? Absolutely." He rubbed his temples. "What's our way in?" "Clown." Molly tapped the map triumphantly. "I rented a costume. Big shoes, red nose, the whole nightmare. You go in as Jingles the Magnificent. Parents love a clown they didn't hire. Makes 'em feel lucky." "Or suspicious." "Lucky people aren't suspicious. That's the whole point of luck." Bill stared at her. "And where will *you* be while I'm juggling for toddlers?" "Hedge." "Hedge?" "In the hedge. By the gift pile. You do a magic trick — something loud, something with doves — and while everyone's oohing, I emerge from the foliage, load the presents into a garbage bag, and slip back through the hole in the fence." "I don't have doves." "I got you pigeons. They're basically doves with self-esteem issues." "Molly." "Bill." "This is the worst plan you've ever had, and last year you tried to rob an ATM with a magnet shaped like a duck." "That duck had *potential*," she said, stabbing a hash brown. "Look, these presents are prime. Tommy's dad is a hedge fund guy. We're talking drones. Tablets. One kid RSVP'd with a pony — who knows what he's bringing. This is a five-figure haul wrapped in SpongeBob paper." Bill exhaled slowly, the sigh of a man who had already agreed and just hadn't told his mouth yet. "What about the dog?" "What dog?" "There's always a dog." "Fine. There's a dog. A labradoodle named Biscuit. I've prepared a distraction." "Which is?" "A ham." "That's it? A ham?" "It's a *big* ham, Bill. Respect the ham." He slumped back against the vinyl. "And the getaway?" "Ice cream truck. I bought one off a guy named Dale. It plays 'Jingle Bells' and it only plays 'Jingle Bells,' so we need to move fast before someone notices it's June." Bill took a long, grieving sip of coffee. "When do we start?" Molly grinned and held up a tiny red nose. "Saturday, sunshine. Saturday."