Run: 2026-05-10-01KR8Z3XYSZ06418S9T3CDZ2BW

Molly pulled Bill aside behind the birthday clown's storage truck. "Bill, you got the layout yet?" she hissed, eyes darting across the inflatables. Bill nodded, sliding a crumpled map between two cake boxes. "Back gate’s open till six. Pinata goes up at five thirty. We hit it right when the parents do the group photo—every kid facing the camera, all eyes off the gift table." Molly tapped the paper. "Fine, but we need less than ninety seconds. You pull the sheet under the table, I load the bag. If one kid turns around, we abort. I’m not wrestling a kindergarten class over iPads." Bill smirked. "You’re still sore about last year’s juggling fiasco, huh? Told you, never trust trained poodles." Molly glared. "Focus. The wrapping paper disguises the bag handles. You remember the code phrase if security shows?" Bill straightened his bow tie. "Yeah—'Balloon animals smell suspicious today.' If I say it twice, you vanish with the loot and I loop the playground until they forget me." Molly glanced at her watch. "Timer starts when the magician fumbles the first card trick. Parents film everything then. You cut the string on the pony ride banner, I sweep the east stack." Bill chuckled. "The pony? Really? Those kids’ll scream for hours." Molly grinned despite herself. "Exactly. Chaos buys us seconds. You got the exit vehicle prepped?" Bill jerked his thumb toward the parking lot. "Ice-cream truck’s unlocked, keys in the visor. Nobody checks behind the sprinkles bin." Molly exhaled. "And if a toddler bursts into tears when we grab their dinosaur wrapping—" Bill shrugged. "We toss him a spare balloon. Instant distraction. Kids fall for that every time." Molly rolled her eyes. "You sound way too practiced at this. Last time you handed out bubbles and the parents started filming you like a hero." Bill’s grin widened. "That’s called market research. Besides, the real trick is not looking guilty. Smile like we belong." Molly checked the sparkler fuses again. "Belong long enough to reach the back door. After that it’s pure sprint. You locked the van doors?" Bill nodded. "Triple check. Last thing we need is some four-year-old joyriding our getaway ride." Molly sighed, checking the time once more. "Alright. On my signal—three whistles—go. And Bill?" She paused, lowering her voice. "If anything feels off, we walk. Presents aren’t worth orange jumpsuits. You copy?" Bill raised two fingers in salute. "Loud and clear, partner. Now stop worrying—we’re not stealing from banks, just future spoiled adults. Piece of birthday cake."