Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0GE2ENBC1Q2EZKN4AW16NG

Molly spread the blueprints across the kitchen table, weighing down the corners with half-empty coffee mugs and a suspiciously sticky juice box. The floor plan of the Hendersons' suburban colonial looked, to her practiced eye, like a vault guarded by the world's shortest and most unpredictable security force. Twelve seven-year-olds. A clown named Bobo with questionable references. One overworked mother armed with a camera and a dwindling reserve of patience. Bill paced behind her, chewing the end of a crayon he'd mistaken for a pencil. His trench coat, which had served them well at the jewelry exchange, looked catastrophically out of place next to the Pin the Tail on the Donkey poster he'd acquired for reconnaissance purposes. He tapped the patio door on the blueprint, then the gift table, then the patio door again, as though repetition might birth inspiration. "Piñata's our distraction," Molly said. Bill nodded solemnly, as if she'd quoted scripture. The plan was elegant in its stupidity: enter through the hedge, pose as Bobo's assistants, and escape with a pillowcase stuffed full of shrink-wrapped dinosaurs, glittering tiaras, and at least one remote-controlled helicopter that Bill had already decided, privately and passionately, belonged to him.