Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G1T63KF4B6DAYC62KQYKX

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the sticky diner table, flattening it with a ketchup bottle and two half-eaten pancakes. The floor plan of the Fun Barn glowed under the neon light, every ball pit and piñata circled in red marker. She tapped the emergency exit with a chewed fingernail, then circled the present table three times for emphasis. Bill squinted at the diagram, nursing coffee that had gone cold somewhere around his third existential crisis of the morning. He had never robbed a seven-year-old before, and his conscience, which usually slept through these conversations, was now wide awake and demanding a lawyer. "Clowns scare me," Bill muttered. Molly didn't look up. She was calculating wrapping paper square footage, estimating getaway weight, factoring in the structural integrity of the average gift bag. Outside, rain smeared against the window like a bad alibi. Bill pictured tiny cone hats, tiny accusing faces, tiny lawyers. Molly slid him a clown mask across the table with the solemnity of a priest passing communion. He accepted it. Somewhere, a child was currently writing a thank-you note for gifts they would never receive, and Bill tried very hard not to think about that.