Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0G69ZT7ES79ZZQ9V3EQPZD

Molly spread the blueprint across the sticky diner table, weighing down the corners with ketchup bottles and a half-eaten plate of hash browns. Bill squinted at it, then at her, then back at it. "This is a Denny's menu," he said. "It's the back of a Denny's menu. The blueprint's on the front. Flip it over, Bill." He flipped it over. The drawing was rendered in purple crayon, complete with a smiling sun in the upper corner. "Your nephew drew this?" "My nephew went to the party last year. This is reconnaissance." Bill rubbed his temples. "Molly. I've knocked over three armored cars. I've cracked a vault in Zurich. And now we're stealing a Paw Patrol backpack from a seven-year-old?" "Forty-seven presents," Molly corrected, stabbing the menu with her fork. "Rich kid. Hedge fund dad. Last year the birthday boy got a drone, an iPad, and a pony named Reginald." "They gave a kid a pony." "They gave a kid a pony, Bill." He leaned back, considering. A waitress refilled his coffee without making eye contact, which was ideal, operationally speaking. "Alright," he sighed. "Walk me through it." "Party starts at two. Bounce house goes up at one-thirty. That's our window." She tapped a crayon square labeled CASTEL. "I go in as the face painter. You're the magician." "I'm not a magician." "You pulled a quarter out of my ear on our third date." "That was a trick my grandfather taught me to flirt with waitresses." "And it worked, didn't it? You're a magician, Bill. Embrace it." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I do balloon animals until cake time, then what?" "Cake time is chaos. Sugar-fueled stampede. Parents filming. Nobody watching the gift table." She drew a swooping arrow with an imaginary pen. "I distract the mom — she'll want a butterfly on her cheek, trust me, she's that kind of mom — and you roll the gift table out the patio doors to the van." "The whole table." "The whole table." "Molly, that's a table. Of presents. At a party." "Which is why nobody will expect it. Who steals a table, Bill? A lunatic. We are lunatics. That is our edge." Bill stared at the crayon sun, which was, he now realized, winking at him. "What about the clown?" "There's no clown." "There's always a clown." "Hedge fund dad hates clowns. Ever since the incident in Aspen." "What incident in Aspen?" "Not our business. Focus." She slid a photograph across the table. A pile of glittering gift bags taller than a Labrador. "Tell me that doesn't sing to you." Bill looked at the picture. He looked at Molly. He looked at his coffee, which had gone cold in a way that felt symbolic. "One condition," he said. "Name it." "If there's a pony this year, we take the pony." Molly grinned and raised her mug. "Obviously we take the pony." They clinked, and the smiling sun winked again.