Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE8WBSJVRRJ8JCXH5XWM0P0

The rain hammered against the window of the van, and Bill's mustache twitched with the particular anxiety of a man about to do something deeply stupid. "Say it again," Bill said. "Slower this time." "We're stealing presents," Molly said. "From a six-year-old's birthday party." "That's what I thought you said." "Bill, we've robbed banks. We've robbed a *casino* once. You cried during that one, remember? Big tough guy, crying about—" "That was pepper spray, Molly, and you know it." "Sure it was." Molly checked her watch, a habit she'd picked up from every heist movie ever made, despite the fact that they were currently sitting in a Honda Odyssey with a cracked windshield and absolutely no schedule to keep. "Look, the intel is solid. Cousin works catering. Says there's at least forty gifts under that table. Nintendo Switches. Legos. A bike, Bill. A whole bike." "A bike is not worth going to prison over." "It's not just the bike. It's the *principle*." "What principle? The principle of stealing candy from babies?" "They're not babies, they're six. And it's not candy, it's merchandise. There's a difference." Bill stared out at the house across the street, where pink and purple balloons bobbed against the porch railing like they were mocking him personally. A banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY EMMA hung slightly crooked above the door. "What's our cover?" he asked, already regretting the question. "We're clowns." "We are not clowns." "We're clowns, Bill. I bought the noses. I bought the wigs. There's a whole bag in the back with squeaky shoes and everything." "I am not wearing squeaky shoes into a felony." "You wore a tutu into the Kaminski job." "That was different. That was for the diamonds." "This is for a bike, Bill. Priorities." Bill pinched the bridge of his nose, which was somehow already starting to hurt despite the actual rubber nose not yet being anywhere near it. "And when the birthday girl notices forty gifts have vanished into thin air? What then?" "We tell her the real Santa needed them for a more deserving child." "It's not Christmas." "Details, Bill. Details are for cowards." "Details are for people who don't want to go to prison." "Nobody's going to prison over a Paw Patrol backpack." Bill turned to look at her fully now, taking in the seriousness etched across her face, a seriousness entirely unbefitting the conversation they were having. "You've really thought this through." "I think about everything through," Molly said, reaching into the back seat and producing, with unsettling ceremony, two red rubber noses. "Now put this on. We've got a party to crash." Bill took the nose, stared at it like it might bite him, and sighed the sigh of a man who'd long since stopped questioning where his life had gone wrong. "If we get caught," he said, "I'm blaming you." "Obviously," Molly said, already halfway out the door.