Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1GNC86287JTKRHBKJV13SJ

Molly adjusted her cat-eye mask in the rearview mirror, tongue pressed against her cheek as she studied the glossy flyer. The car smelled like stale coffee and bad decisions, which was, frankly, their signature scent. "Okay, recap time," she said, tapping the paper. "Six-year-old birthday brat, bouncy castle, thirty kids, three parents, one clown who looks like he's on something interesting. What did I miss?" Bill squinted at the map, mustache twitching. "The clown's called Bumbles. He does balloon animals and also, allegedly, taxes." "He does what?" "Don't ask. We go in at cake time. Every adult's eyes on the candles, not on us." Molly grinned, drumming the steering wheel. "And the haul?" "Forty-two presents, minimum. Mom went feral with the credit card. I saw the statement." "You saw her credit card statement. You absolute peach." Bill shrugged, butter wouldn't melt. "I have a gift." "Right. So what's the angle? Clown costume? Caterer? Distraught aunt?" Bill held up a finger, expression grave as a heart attack. "Bouncy castle repairman." "Bill. There is no bouncy castle damage." "There will be." Molly stared at him for a long, beautiful moment. Then she started laughing, the kind of laugh that makes your ribs ache and your mascara reconsider its entire career. "You're going to stab the bouncy castle?" "Strategically. A small, dignified puncture. Children evacuate in screaming waves. We sweep in, grab the gift table, and vanish before anyone blows out the candles. Clean. Surgical. Beautiful." "You've put an alarming amount of thought into this." "I had a long lunch. And a longer afternoon." She wiped her eyes, still giggling like a fool. "Okay. I'm in. But I have conditions." "Name them." "First: we leave the clown alone. He's had a rough life. I can tell." "Agreed. Solidarity with Bumbles." "Second: no kids. We are not traumatizing six-year-olds for a Furby and some Legos." "Scout's honor." "You were never a scout." "I could have been. Anyway, agreed. No kids." She leaned back, considering. "Third. If there's a pony at this party, we do not take the pony. I want that absolutely clear." "You take the pony out of the heist, I take the pony out of the heist. Pony's safe." "Good. Good." She paused, turning toward him. "Bill." "Molly." "Why do we do this?" He looked at her, eyes soft beneath the ridiculous black mask. "Because some people have too many gifts, Moll. And some people have too few. Also because it's hilarious." "Also because it's hilarious," she agreed quietly. They bumped fists over the center console, a sacred ritual. "Now," she said, cracking her knuckles. "Tell me more about Bumbles and the taxes." "Honestly, I think he's running a side hustle. Very hush-hush. The IRS doesn't know which parties to audit." "Oh my God." "Get ready, Moll. Cake time waits for no thief." She started the engine, grinning like a wolf eyeing a field of very small, very rich sheep. "Cake time, baby. Let's go rob a six-year-old."