Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1H3EJM5Q8GYWE09PDTWV6Q

Molly spread the blueprints across the kitchen table, smoothing out the creases with the reverence of a surgeon preparing for a delicate operation. The crayon drawing depicted a backyard, a bouncy castle, and what appeared to be a lopsided gazebo. "Where did you even get this?" Bill asked, squinting at the artwork. "Reconnaissance," Molly said. "I borrowed it from the birthday boy's older sister. Told her I was an art critic." Bill picked up the paper and turned it sideways, then upside down. A glittery sticker fell off and landed in his coffee. He fished it out, examined it, and decided not to ask. The plan was elegant in its simplicity. Saturday afternoon, two o'clock, the Hendersons would host approximately fifteen seven-year-olds for their son Timmy's birthday extravaganza. According to Molly's intelligence, the present table would groan under the weight of wrapped boxes, gift bags, and at least three remote-control vehicles she'd already promised to a fence named Antonio. "Here's how it goes," Molly said, tapping the blueprint. "I create a distraction at the piñata. You slip in through the side gate, grab the loot, and we rendezvous at the getaway minivan." "A minivan." "Nobody suspects a minivan, Bill. It's the perfect crime." Bill leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He'd been in this business for twenty years. He'd robbed banks, casinos, and once, memorably, a yacht belonging to a minor European prince. This felt different. This felt wrong. "We're stealing from children," he said. "We're stealing from children's *parents*," Molly corrected. "There's a difference. Those parents bought overpriced plastic garbage that'll be forgotten by Tuesday. We're practically doing them a favor. Decluttering, really." She had a point, Bill thought, though he hated admitting it. He'd seen the inside of those gift bags. Last month they'd practically given away a perfectly good drone at a six-year-old's party in the suburbs. "What about the cake?" Bill asked. "What about it?" "Do we get cake?" Molly stared at him for a long moment. "We are professional thieves, Bill. We do not stop for cake." "I'm just saying, if there's cake right there—" "No cake." Bill sighed and returned his attention to the blueprint. He noticed something circled in red marker near the gazebo. "What's this?" "The clown," Molly said gravely. "Goes by the name Bubbles. Word on the street is he's an off-duty cop moonlighting for extra cash. We avoid Bubbles at all costs." "A clown cop." "The most dangerous kind. Now, synchronize your watch." Bill looked down at his wrist, where he wore no watch. He'd pawned it last week to cover the minivan rental. Molly noticed, rolled her eyes, and pulled a child's plastic timepiece from her pocket, sliding it across the table. It featured a cartoon dinosaur and lit up when pressed. "Found it in the recon materials," she explained. Bill strapped it on, pressed the button, and watched the dinosaur glow. "We're going to prison," he muttered. "Probably," Molly agreed cheerfully. "But we'll have presents."