Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0GBS5C0KRHDB5B3GZZ1HG0

The back booth of Denny's smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions, which Molly considered the ideal atmosphere for criminal planning. She unfolded a napkin across the table and smoothed it with the palm of her hand like it was a blueprint from a Swiss bank. "Okay," she said. "The target is a seven-year-old named Tristan." Bill stopped chewing his hash browns. "Tristan." "Tristan." "We're robbing a Tristan." "His mother rented a bouncy castle, Bill. A *themed* bouncy castle. Do you know what that costs? These are not people who buy their child socks." Bill set down his fork. "Molly. Sweetheart. Love of my life. We are adult human beings." "Speak for yourself." "I have a 401k." "You have a coffee can buried in your mom's yard." "That is a 401k to me," Bill said, with real dignity. "And I'm just saying, maybe we aim higher than a birthday party. Maybe a jewelry store. Maybe a nice, grown-up liquor mart." Molly leaned forward. "Bill. Listen to me. Last year at his sister's party, the parting gifts included actual Nintendo Switches. For the *guests*. Do you understand what I'm telling you? The loot table on this job is insane." "And what's the plan? We kick in the door? We shoot a clown?" "No one is shooting a clown." "I want that in writing." Molly slid him a second napkin, on which she had drawn something that looked vaguely like a house, or possibly a dog. "I go in as Auntie Denise. Nobody knows Auntie Denise. Every family has one. You arrive twenty minutes later as the magician." "I am not a magician." "You own a cape." "I own a *robe*, Molly, and it has a hole in it where I—" "Close enough. You do three card tricks, you herd the kids into the living room for the show, and I clean out the present table. Gift bags too. All of it goes into the minivan." "We have a minivan?" "We will have stolen a minivan." Bill rubbed his forehead with both hands. "So to summarize. To steal toys from a child, we are going to commit grand theft auto, impersonate a relative, impersonate a performing artist, and deceive approximately fifteen minors." "And eat cake." "And eat cake?" "There is always cake, Bill. Factor in the cake." He was quiet for a long moment. A waitress refilled their coffees and moved on, sensing things. "What kind of cake?" Bill finally said. "Ice cream cake. Confirmed. I drove past the Carvel on the way here." Bill exhaled the sigh of a man whose moral compass had been rotating freely since 2008. He picked up his fork, speared a hash brown, and pointed it at her like a gavel. "Fine," he said. "But if there's a piñata, I get the piñata." "Bill." "Non-negotiable." "Fine. You get the piñata." They clinked coffee mugs across the napkin, and somewhere across town, a seven-year-old named Tristan slept, unaware.