Run: 2026-05-31-01KSYX9MKJCWTWDT47VB9NGH0X

Molly spread the blueprints across the kitchen table, smoothing out the crayon-stained paper with the reverence of a general planning an invasion. The blueprints were, in fact, a birthday party invitation she'd swiped from a recycling bin. "Okay, here's the situation," she said, tapping the cartoon balloon in the corner. "Tyler's seventh birthday. Saturday, two o'clock. Theme is dinosaurs." Bill leaned over her shoulder, chewing a toothpick with the intensity of a man who had clearly watched too many crime films. He squinted at the paper. "That's the entrance," Molly continued. "The presents will be stacked on a table by the window. We grab them during the cake, when everyone's distracted by candles and the inevitable sugar-induced chaos." "What about security?" Bill asked. Molly raised an eyebrow. "It's a children's party, Bill. The security is a golden retriever named Biscuit and a clown who's contractually obligated to leave by three." Bill nodded slowly, absorbing this critical intelligence. He pulled a crumpled napkin from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing a sketch that looked suspiciously like a stick figure being chased by a triangle. "This is my escape route," he announced proudly. "That's a triangle." "It's a slide. We go down the kids' slide, through the hedge, and into the getaway van." Molly stared at him. "We are grown adults. We will not fit down a child's slide." "Speak for yourself. I'm very limber." She decided not to dignify this with a response. Instead, she returned to the plan, pointing at various landmarks she'd drawn in the margins. The bounce castle. The piñata. The snack table, which she'd labeled, somewhat menacingly, as "DANGER: ORANGE SLICES." "The key," she said, "is timing. We blend in. We look like we belong." "Belong how? We don't have kids." Molly produced two name tags from her jacket pocket and slapped one onto Bill's chest. It read, in glittery letters, *AUNT GERTRUDE*. Bill looked down at it. "I'm not an aunt." "You are today." "Why am I the aunt? Why aren't you the aunt?" "Because I," Molly said with dignity, peeling off her own tag, which read *UNCLE STEVE*, "am committed to the role." Bill grumbled but accepted his fate, smoothing down the glitter. He picked up a juice box from the table and took a contemplative sip, immediately wincing. "This is warm." "Focus, Bill. We're professionals." "We're stealing from a seven-year-old." "We're stealing from a seven-year-old who, according to this invitation, is getting a brand new gaming console, a bicycle, and something ominously described as 'the big surprise.' Tyler will be fine. Tyler has *parents*. Tyler has a future. We have rent." Bill considered this. It was, admittedly, hard to argue with the logic of overdue rent. He finished the warm juice box with a sigh of resignation and crushed it in his fist. "Fine," he said. "But I'm calling dibs on the goody bags." Molly extended her hand across the table, and they shook on it, two hardened criminals united by desperation, glitter, and the promise of cheap plastic dinosaurs.