Run: 2026-05-10-01KR8WK9NX4DZ672BPPTW567BV

Molly and Bill sat hunched over the crumpled blueprints of the Pevensie house on a folding table lit by a single crooked lamp. "Right," Molly said, tapping a crayon-scribbled square marked "Ball Pit." "We go in during the musical-chairs round when everyone’s shrieking. You distract the clown, I slip behind the gift table." Bill snorted. "Distract him how? Juggle three whoopie cushions? I’m a thief, not Bozo." "It’s a children’s party, Bill. No one questions a grown man flailing about. Just spill some juice and act upset about the rug." He squinted at the diagram. "At least the goodie bags are near the door. We could grab those too, fewer witnesses." Molly rolled her eyes. "We’re not touching the goodie bags. This isn’t about loot profit; it’s about the big haul under the tree. Last year they gave away iPads. iPads, Bill." "Last year’s party was the Johnsons," he muttered. "They’ll learn." She traced a line from the kitchen window to the living-room sofa. "In, grab, out through the patio before the parents break the piñata. Forty seconds max." Bill leaned back, chair creaking. "What if some snot-nosed five-year-old starts crying?" "You stuff a balloon in his mouth and keep walking." "That’s your plan—balloon gag?" "Better than yours, which was honking like a goose while carting a sack through the front hall." He grinned despite himself. "Honking does draw focus." Molly slid two black drawstring bags across the table. "These are for the loot. Silent, flexible, no rustle like canvas. No fingerprints either, if you manage to keep your gloves on longer than thirty seconds." Bill sighed, rubbing his temple. "One day we’ll hit a bank like normal criminals." "One day," she agreed, "but today we’re going after the mother lode of wrapped electronics. You got the clown mask?" He patted the duffel at his feet. "Pink, polka-dotted, smells faintly of funnel cake." "Good. We trade him a bigger nose for his absence." Bill checked his watch. "Party starts in four hours. Two hundred screaming six-year-olds, one exhausted magician, and a mountain of paper with bows. You ready?" Molly zipped her jacket. "Born ready. Just remember—no presents, no payday."