Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1HYR3PS3Y2D0S5TMZCXX93

Molly spread the blueprint across the table, smoothing out the wrinkles with theatrical precision. "Behold," she said. "The Henderson residence. Site of one Timmy Henderson's seventh birthday party." Bill squinted at the paper. "That's a child's drawing of a house." "It's reconnaissance." "There's a sun wearing sunglasses in the corner." "Timmy has artistic flair. Focus, Bill." She tapped the page. "The presents will be stacked here, by the cake table. We go in, we grab the loot, we're out before they finish singing 'Happy Birthday.'" Bill crossed his arms. "I'm not robbing a seven-year-old." "We're not robbing him. We're robbing his *guests*. Twenty kids, twenty presents. Do you know what kids get these days? iPads. Drones. One of these brats is probably getting a pony." "You can't fit a pony in a getaway car." "It's a metaphorical pony, Bill." "I don't even know what that means." Molly sighed and pulled out a second sheet. "Here's the plan. You'll go in disguised as the entertainment. A clown." Bill's face drained of color. "Absolutely not. I have a documented fear of clowns." "You *are* the clown." "That doesn't help! That makes it worse! I'll be afraid of myself!" "While you distract the children with your tortured psyche," Molly continued, "I slip in through the back posing as a caterer. I locate the present pile, load everything into the bouncy castle—" "The bouncy castle?" "It deflates. We drag it out like a sack. Genius, right?" Bill rubbed his temples. "Molly, these are children. They cry. They have those little faces." "Which is exactly why this works. Nobody suspects the clown. Nobody pats down the caterer. We're invisible." She leaned in. "And the parents? Loaded. Did you see the invitation? Embossed. Who embosses a birthday invitation?" "Someone with too much money and not enough sense." "Exactly our demographic." Bill picked up the blueprint again, studying the crayon sun. "What about security?" "The Hendersons hired a magician. That's it. One man. With doves." "Doves are unpredictable." "You're afraid of doves now?" "I'm afraid of a *lot* of birds, Molly, and I won't apologize for it." She slid a red foam nose across the table. "Put it on." Bill stared at it like it was a live grenade. "And after we get the presents?" "We sell them. Mint condition toys, still in the packaging? Collectors go feral for that stuff. We could clear ten grand." "Ten grand," Bill repeated softly. "Ten grand and not a single grown-up gets hurt." "Just the emotional well-being of two dozen innocent children." Molly waved a hand. "Builds character. Disappointment is a crucial part of childhood. We're practically doing them a favor." Bill picked up the foam nose, turning it over in his fingers. "If I do this, I want a real wig. Not the cheap one. The cheap one makes my scalp itch." A slow grin spread across Molly's face. "Bill, my friend, for this job? You'll have the finest synthetic hair money can steal." He squeezed the nose. It honked. "God help us," he muttered.