Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0GG45JWPF1WNR0FA2QKBXN

The booth at Denny's had seen better decades. Molly spread the blueprint across the sticky table, weighing down the corners with a syrup dispenser, a ketchup bottle, and two mugs of coffee that had gone cold sometime during the Obama administration. "Okay," she said, tapping the paper. "Birthday girl turns seven at fourteen hundred hours. We hit the bounce house at fourteen-thirty." Bill squinted at the diagram. "Why is there a circle labeled 'clown'?" "Because there's a clown, Bill." "I don't do clowns." "You robbed an armored car in Tulsa." "And I'd do it again," Bill said, stirring his coffee with a french fry. "But clowns are where I draw the line. It's a whole thing. I've got a list." Molly closed her eyes the way she always did before explaining something she shouldn't have to explain. "The clown is a distraction asset. We don't engage. You slip in through the side gate while Pennywise is twisting balloons into giraffes, I grab the pile off the gift table, we load the van, we're gone before they cut the cake." "What flavor cake?" "Bill." "I'm asking for tactical reasons." "It's a princess theme, so probably vanilla with pink frosting, and that is *not* tactical, that is you, and we are not taking the cake." Bill looked wounded. "A cake is a present, Molly. A cake is the most honest present. You ever see a kid fake gratitude over a cake? No. Because the cake is pure." "The cake is pure sugar and I am pure out of patience. Focus. The gift table is here—" she jabbed the blueprint, "—between the piñata and the juice box cooler. We've got a ninety-second window from when they light the candles to when Grandma whips out the camcorder." "People still use camcorders?" "This grandma does. She's been making home movies since 'Nam and she notices things. Treat her like a federal agent with a hip replacement." Bill nodded slowly, the weight of the mission settling onto his shoulders like a too-small birthday hat. "What's our exit?" "Van's parked by the hydrangeas. You drive. I ride shotgun with the loot." "And if a kid sees us?" Molly paused. This was the part she had been dreading. "We cry." "We what?" "We cry harder than the kid. Louder. Meaner. We make it a competition the kid cannot win. Parents step in to comfort us, we bolt during the confusion." Bill stared at her with something like reverence. "That is the most unhinged thing I have ever heard." "Thank you." "I mean it. I would follow you into hell." "Just follow me into a backyard in Sherman Oaks." He raised his cold coffee. She raised hers. They clinked. "To the presents," Bill said. "To the presents," Molly agreed. "And Bill?" "Yeah?" "If you grab that cake, I swear to God, I will leave you for the clown."