Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G2H61RF2SX81PM8M84RD6

The surveillance van smelled like old nachos and regret, which Bill felt was a fitting metaphor for his entire career. He adjusted the binoculars and squinted through the windshield at the pastel-streamered house across the street. A clown was unloading balloons from a Prius. A woman in yoga pants was wrestling a piñata shaped like a unicorn out of her trunk. Molly sat in the driver's seat eating a granola bar with the grim determination of someone who had stopped enjoying granola bars in 2009. She had a clipboard. She always had a clipboard. Bill suspected she slept with it. "The birthday girl is turning seven," she said. "Her name is Ainsley. She likes horses, glitter, and, according to her mother's Facebook, 'anything that sparkles and screams.'" "That's a red flag for a child." "That's a red flag for anyone." Bill lowered the binoculars. "Remind me why we're doing this again? Because I distinctly remember us agreeing, after the bar mitzvah incident, that we would never again steal from anyone under the height of a parking meter." "We're broke." "Ah. Yes. The classic motivator." She flipped a page on the clipboard. A crayon drawing of the house's floor plan stared back at him, which Bill found troubling on several levels. "Did a child draw that?" "I drew it. In crayon. Because that's all I had in the van." "It's very good. The refrigerator looks like a refrigerator." "Thank you." Bill sighed and rubbed his face. "Okay. Walk me through it." "Two o'clock, the magician arrives. Guests are funneled into the backyard for the magic show. That's our window. The presents are stacked on the dining room table." She tapped the crayon rectangle labeled PRESENTS!!! with three exclamation points. "We go in through the side gate, through the mudroom, and we're out in ninety seconds." "What about the dog?" "There's no dog." "There's always a dog." "There is no dog, Bill." "Every house has a dog. It's like a law. The Constitution of dogs." Molly closed her eyes for a long moment, in the way of a woman recalculating her life choices. "There is a guinea pig named Señor Pickles. He lives in a cage. He is not a threat." "Depends on the guinea pig." Across the street, a father was inflating a bounce castle with the manic energy of a man who had promised too much and slept too little. A pack of children in princess dresses stormed the lawn like a tiny, sequined Viking raid. "And we really think the presents are worth it?" Bill asked. "Upper-middle-class birthday. Twenty-five kids. Minimum four hundred dollars in Legos alone. Plus an iPad, guaranteed. The grandparents always bring an iPad." "My god. We're monsters." "We're professionals." "Those are the same thing, Molly." She handed him a clown nose. He stared at it. She stared back. "Put it on, Bill." He put it on.