Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G461DSQK6MKMAE8PEDQPA

The back booth of Denny's smelled like syrup and poor decisions, which Molly felt was fitting, because she was currently staring at a hand-drawn map of Tiffany Pemberton's seventh birthday party. "You drew the bounce house wrong," she said, tapping the napkin. "It's an octagon, Bill. You drew a circle." Bill set down his coffee with the gentle dignity of a man who had been corrected one too many times in his forty-three years on Earth. He adjusted the napkin, pulled a pen from behind his ear, and added what could only generously be called corners. "There. Octagon." "That's a circle with anxiety." "Molly, we are not being graded on the bounce house." She leaned back, crossing her arms. The waitress refilled their cups without making eye contact, which was the correct move, because Molly was wearing a balaclava pushed up like a beanie and Bill had a laser pointer clipped to his shirt pocket for reasons he refused to disclose. "Walk me through it again," Molly said. "Okay. Two p.m., the piñata goes up. That's our window. Every kid at that party loses their goddamn mind when a piñata comes out. It's primal. It's Lord of the Flies with fondant." "And the parents?" "Watching the kids. Filming the kids. Yelling at the kids to share the stick." "And we—" "Slip in through the side gate, which Kevin left unlocked for his vape breaks. We hit the gift table, load the presents into the bounce house." Molly blinked. "Into the bounce house." "Into the bounce house." "Bill." "Hear me out." "Bill, the bounce house is the opposite of a getaway vehicle. It is, by definition, stationary and full of children." Bill held up a finger, which was a gesture he reserved for moments he believed were brilliant and Molly recognized as moments he was about to be wrong in public. "The bounce house," he said, "has a deflation cord. We yank it, the whole thing collapses around the presents like a parachute. We grab the corners, we've got a sack. A giant, festive sack. Santa Claus, baby. Reverse Santa." Molly stared at him for what felt, to Bill, like several geological eras. "That," she finally said, "is the stupidest thing I have ever heard, and it's going to work, and I hate you for it." "I've been workshopping it." "What about the dog?" "The Pemberton dog is a fourteen-year-old Pomeranian named Gerald who is, and I cannot stress this enough, legally blind." "You researched the dog." "I researched the dog." She picked up the napkin, folded it, and tucked it into her jacket. Outside, a minivan pulled into the parking lot with a stack of balloons visible through the rear window, and both thieves watched it with the focused hunger of wolves observing a wedding. "One rule," Molly said, standing. "Name it." "We don't touch the birthday girl's presents." Bill looked wounded. "Molly. I'm a professional." "You stole a kidney cake last March." "That was art."