Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1HJRKX4D2YEQ28NKZJTQ48

Molly adjusted her earpiece and stared at the blueprints spread across the hood of their getaway car. Bill was licking an ice cream cone, which he’d bought specifically to "get in character." "Alright, Bill, focus," Molly said. "The Flanagan birthday party. Two o'clock. Twenty-seven seven-year-olds hopped up on sugar. This is our window." Bill took a noisy lick of his cone. "What's the target?" "All of it," Molly said, flinging her arms wide. "Every gift bag, every wrapped box, that one kid's stupid remote-control car. We clean them out." Bill frowned, chocolate dribbling down his wrist. "Isn't stealing from kids kind of... you know... the worst?" "We're not stealing from kids," Molly said, grabbing a pointer from the hood and jabbing it at the blueprints. "We're stealing presents from a backyard. The kids don't even open them until later. By the time they realize, we're in Boca." Bill considered this logic. "Okay, I'm in. What's the play?" Molly grinned. "Phase one: the clown." "The clown?" "I'm the clown," Molly said, pulling a rainbow wig from her satchel. "I go in as Giggles the Birthday Bozo. Distraction, balloon animals, the whole deal." "And me?" Molly studied him. His ice cream was now on his tie. She sighed. "You're the pony." "The pony?" "The pony, Bill. You put on the costume, you walk around on all fours, kids ride you. I distract, you crawl, and our inside man — my nephew Kyle — stuffs the loot into the piñata." Bill's eyebrows shot up. "The piñata's our getaway vehicle?" "Yesterday I replaced the piñata with an exact replica that's actually a duffel bag on wheels," Molly said proudly. "We wheel it out the back gate, toss it in the trunk, and we're gone before anyone sings the second verse of 'Happy Birthday.'" Bill slowly began to smile. "Molly, that's... that's beautiful." "I know." She snapped the blueprints shut. "But we've got a problem." "What?" "The mom hired a security guy. Retired cop. Big mustache. He's been checking IDs at the gate." Bill's smile died. "So we can't get in." "No, we can't get in as us," Molly said. She reached into the car and pulled out a mustache. "But we can get in as your grandparents." Bill stared at the mustache, then at the rainbow wig, then back at the mustache. "I want to be the pony." "You can be the pony at my niece's party next month," Molly said. "Today, you're Grandpa Earl." Bill sighed, set down his melted cone, and took the mustache. "If I get thrown out of a children's party twice in one year, I'm quitting the business." "You won't quit," Molly said, patting his cheek. "You're too good at being Grandpa Earl." "That's the nicest mean thing anyone's ever said to me." Bill stuck the mustache on his face. "Alright. Let's go steal from some children." Molly slid the wig over her curls. "Let's go steal from some children." They high-fived, got into the car, and drove toward the most lucrative birthday party in suburban history.