Run: 2026-04-27-01KQ7A07ZW0C7ZHC4Z6CX5HS7J

Molly adjusted her wire earpiece and squinted at the blueprints spread across Bill’s kitchen table. The plans depicted a suburban living room, a plastic piñata, and a suspiciously vulnerable pile of wrapped cardboard boxes. The kitchen smelled of stale coffee. She traced the perimeter with a grease-stained finger against the laminated surface. We have a three minute window, Bill said, tapping the diagram. Two adults will be manning the inflatable bouncer. They will be drinking wine and checking their phones. Three minutes is tight. I need at least four for the good stuff. The Lego castle weighs seven pounds. If we drag it through the cat flap, the frame will split. She shifted the blueprints. Then we use the delivery route. The truck comes at nine. They stack the presents near the back door. Perfect staging area. He poured two cups of coffee onto chipped ceramic mugs. I will need a distraction. Something irresistible to children. Try the juice boxes. The kind with plastic spouts. If you leave three on the staircase, they will swarm. Parents get confused. Chaos ensures. He slid a napkin across the table. Excellent. What about the extraction? I have a stroller. It has a hidden compartment. We stuff the bags in, pull the canopy down, and roll out the front door like any other exhausted mother. They will not question the stroller. She folded the map into a tight, nervous square. I am concerned about the noise. Cardboard tears loudly. Tape peels like a dying seagull. Wear the thick gloves. The ones lined with felt. Move slow. Breathe. Remember why we are doing this. For the retirement fund. For the waterfront condo. For the absolute necessity of unopened board games. He checked his watch, noting the fading daylight. I am doing it for the vintage action figures. The ones still in plastic. Pristine condition. She adjusted her wireless receiver, checking the battery indicator. I need the heavy duty cart. The wheels are quiet. Rubber treads. No squeaking on hardwood. She pulled a heavy catalog from her leather jacket. Same thing, Bill. Just heavier inventory. What is the drop time? Eleven forty five. Party ends, parents start loading cars, we slip out the side gate before they realize the tree has been stripped bare. I will bring the magnetic lock pick. And the velvet pouches. I always bring extra pouches for the smaller gift boxes. Pack extra duct tape. And maybe a snack. You get hangry when you are sweating through a paper crown. I am always hangry. It keeps me sharp. Dave is not involved. He is just the unwitting delivery volunteer. Exactly. A flawless alibi wrapped in disposable cups. Now check your gloves. We move Friday.