Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G39J6DNSJ2V20DVH6287W

The back booth of Denny's at 2 AM smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions, which Molly figured was appropriate, considering. She spread the blueprint across the table, knocking over a sugar caddy in the process. "Is that a floor plan or a place mat?" Bill asked, squinting. "It's both. I traced it onto the place mat because I left the actual floor plan in the other pants." "The other pants." "Bill, focus." She tapped the crayon outline with a fingernail. "Bouncy castle here. Piñata here. Presents table — and this is the money shot — right next to the cake, which is shaped like a unicorn, according to Evite." Bill leaned back, arms crossed over his Members Only jacket. "I want it on the record that I have reservations." "Noted." "Serious reservations." "Also noted." "We are stealing from a seven-year-old." "We are stealing from a seven-year-old's *parents,*" Molly corrected, "who, according to their registry, are buying her a pony. A real one. Named Cinnamon. These people deserve what's coming to them." Bill sighed the sigh of a man who had, over the course of three decades, been talked into worse. "What's the play?" "Simple. You're the clown." "No." "Bill." "No, Molly, we talked about this, the last time I was a clown a child bit me, I still have the—" "You're the clown because nobody looks at the clown. Clowns are furniture. Clowns are wallpaper with feet. You waltz in through the side gate, the mom hands you a juice box, you mingle." "And you?" "I'm the magician." She produced, from inside her hoodie, a collapsible top hat and snapped it open with a flourish that dislodged a half-eaten breadstick. "Abracadabra. While I'm pulling scarves out of little Timmy's ear, you're loading presents into the garbage bags we've stashed in the bouncy castle." "Why are the bags in the bouncy castle?" "Because nobody suspects the bouncy castle. The bouncy castle is Switzerland." Bill rubbed his temples. "And the getaway?" "Ice cream truck." "We don't have an ice cream truck." "We will by Saturday. Craigslist. Guy in Reseda. He threw in the jingle for free, though the jingle is — I want to prepare you — it's *Taps.*" "Taps." "Played on a xylophone. It's distinctive." "It's a funeral song, Molly." "It's *our* funeral song." She grinned, and Bill had to admit the grin still did something to him, even after the incident in Tulsa, even after the parrot. "Think about it. Fifty gifts, minimum. Apple Watches for kids. iPads. Some kid's gonna give her a Fabergé egg, I can feel it." "Fabergé eggs are not a common birthday gift." "You don't know these people." Bill stared at the crayon map for a long moment, at the crude unicorn Molly had drawn where the cake was supposed to be. He picked up his fork and pointed it at her. "I'm not wearing the big shoes." "Bill. Baby. You're absolutely wearing the big shoes."