Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1GCPFVZCQSNHNBM6SHENRR

Molly squinted through the garden fence, watching the inflatable castle sag slightly in the breeze. Beside her, Bill adjusted his fake mustache for the third time, muttering about adhesive. The suburban garden was a festival of pastel bunting and suspicious helium balloons, every available surface claimed by the sugar-fuelled chaos. "Bill, this is either your worst idea or your best," Molly said, eyeing the bouncy castle. "It'll be brilliant! Have I ever steered you wrong, partner?" "You got us arrested stealing a reindeer from a petting zoo." "Minor setback. Birthday party at 3 PM sharp. Thirty kids. Thirty goody bags. Chocolate, novelty pencils, the works." Bill produced a crumpled notebook from his inside pocket, flipping to a page covered in stick-figure diagrams. He tapped it gleefully with the enthusiasm of a man who had absolutely not thought this through. "Bill, we do banks, jewelry, art—" "Nostalgia's the real gold, Molly. Those juice boxes? Absolute collector's items in twenty years." "You're ridiculous." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered something unrepeatable. Through the fence, she could see a woman wrestling a sausage roll out of a toddler's grasping hand. This was, without question, far beneath them. "I've drawn blueprints." "You drew blueprints for a six-year-old's party?" "Entry through the piñata station, distraction at face-painting. Plus the clown looks like your Uncle Gerald." Molly felt a twitch in her eye. The clown in question was indeed hauntingly familiar, his oversized shoes flopping as he wandered straight into a rosebush. "Oh God. Please, not the clown." "Worse. He's on helium. Completely useless." "So we just waltz in?" A woman screamed in the garden nearby. A small child had birthday cake smashed across his forehead. Bill didn't even flinch. "Never waltz. Always tango. You're 'Belinda, the storytelling aunt.' I'm 'Wilbur, the dad who brought too much sangria.'" "What about security?" "One confused man in a rabbit suit. He high-fived me at the gate last year. Not exactly James Bond." "And the parents?" "Drunk by 3:30. Open bar. Unresolved marriage issues. I did my recon." Molly watched a dad attempt to negotiate a peace treaty over a deflated football. The operational environment was, she had to admit, beautifully chaotic. "Bill, if we get caught stealing from children—" "We're not stealing FROM them. We're relieving parents of poor decisions. It's a public service." "You told everyone at the pub this would be our greatest job." Bill straightened his mustache with tremendous, almost defiant dignity. Somewhere in the garden, a child began to wail in the key of E minor. "A heist so bold they'd make a feature documentary." "About us being chased by a man in a rabbit suit?" "Exactly. Theatrical." "Fine. But I get first pick of the presents." Molly sighed, the weary, defeated sigh of a woman who had committed to many bad ideas over the years but none quite this spectacularly bad. The bouncy castle deflated another inch, as if in sympathy. "Bring a party hat. We commit to the bit."