Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1HMKG3GZDR49CSFNXBKHQ8

Molly crouched behind the garden gnome, binoculars raised. Bill adjusted his fake mustache and dropped down beside her, his elbow sinking into a flower bed. "Okay, Bill. Talk to me about the target." "It's a birthday party, Molly. Six-year-olds. Hot dogs. The works." "And the perimeter?" "Pink and purple balloons tied to the mailbox. One piñata shaped like a dinosaur that's already missing an eye." "Tragic backstory?" "Probably got it at Party City on clearance." "Hostiles?" "Three parents. One is wearing a shirt that says 'Birthday Star Dad' and looks like he could benchpress the bouncy castle." "Civilians?" "Twenty-seven. Most under four feet tall. High risk of sticky fingers and sudden emotional outbursts." "Entry points?" "Back gate. Kitchen window. Or we just walk in the front like we belong, because, you know, we do look like parents." "Too risky. You forgot the safe word." "Macaroni art." "Correct. Now, the objective. We're not here for the cake." "Nope." "Not here for the goody bags." "Definitely not." "We're here for the haul. The big one." "The presents table." "Twenty-three unwrapped gifts and counting, Bill. Unwrapped, Bill. It's going to be a candy store for a professional like you." "What about the entertainment? That one clown with the accordion?" "Baby Shark on repeat for forty-five minutes. It's our cover. By the third loop, every adult here will be brain-dead. We move during the cake cutting." "And if the birthday kid cries?" "We pivot to Plan B." "What's Plan B?" "We don't have a Plan B, Bill. I just like saying it. Makes me feel like a real criminal. Okay, what about the getaway?" "I've got the van idling two blocks away. License plate says 'BIRTHDAY BOY' because the guy who sold it to me is a monster." "Backup?" "My mom. She's in the car with a crossbow and a thermos of chamomile tea." "Is she on board?" "She's on board with whatever I'm on board with. That's the deal." "Good. Now, the disguise. You're wearing the 'Hi, I'm A Parent' lanyard, right?" "And the polo with the popped collar. I look like a divorced dad from the 90s." "Perfect. Unapproachable. Invisible." "What's my role once inside?" "You distract. You corner the nearest parent and start talking about cryptocurrency. Adults can't stand it. They'll throw their kids at you just to get away." "And you?" "I mingle. I compliment the fruit platter. I ask the host where she got the bunting. Meanwhile, the presents slide into a diaper bag I sewed myself. Five pockets, Bill. Reinforced stitching. It can hold a Lego Millennium Falcon and a small dog." "Stitching rated for pressure?" "For a 7-year-old tugging on it, absolutely." "What's the exit?" "We leave the second someone yells 'piñata time.' The chaos will be our friend." "How do I know when to jump in?" "Bill, you're a professional." "I'm a physical therapist who got fired for stealing tongue depressors, Molly." "Exactly. You're a professional. Now, one more time. What's the plan?" "We hit the party like it's the Louvre. Confident, stylish, and we absolutely do not accept juice boxes from any child under ten." "And if they offer?" "We decline. It's how they get you."