Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE8XHF3301CAR88H3F00NGE

The rain hammered against the windshield of the van, which was parked three houses down from the birthday party in question. Balloons—actual balloons, tied to a mailbox like some kind of taunting flag of surrender—bobbed cheerfully in the storm. Molly sat behind the wheel, chewing gum with the intensity of someone defusing a bomb, while Bill studied a crumpled piece of paper that may or may not have been an actual blueprint. "Explain to me again," Molly said, "why we're robbing an eight-year-old's birthday party." "Because," Bill said, tapping the paper, "Kevin Marsh Jr. is turning eight, and his grandfather is apparently some kind of toy magnate. Do you understand what that means? Every present in that house is going to be top-shelf. We're talking premium action figures. Possibly a drone." "Possibly a drone," Molly repeated flatly. "Possibly two drones." Molly stopped chewing. She turned to look at him, rain streaking down the glass behind her like the world itself was crying about the choices they were making. "Bill, we are professional thieves. We stole a Rembrandt last spring." "A print of a Rembrandt." "Still counts. And now you want us to steal Pokémon cards from a bounce house." "There's a bounce house?" Bill's eyes lit up like he'd just found out there was cake, which, to be fair, there probably was. "That's not the point." "It is a little bit the point." Molly dragged a hand down her face and looked out at the house, where streamers fluttered from the porch and a banner reading HAPPY 8TH BIRTHDAY KEVIN sagged wetly in the downpour. Somewhere inside, forty screaming children were no doubt hopped up on juice boxes and cake, blissfully unaware that two grown adults sat outside plotting their demise via gift theft. "Fine," she said. "Plan?" Bill straightened, suddenly serious, the way he always did right before revealing a plan that was almost certainly terrible. "We go in as entertainers. I've got a balloon animal kit. You do face painting." "I don't know how to face paint." "Nobody does, Molly. That's the beauty of it. Nobody questions a bad tiger." "And once we're in?" "We herd the kids toward the bounce house, distract the parents with the open bar—" "There's an open bar?" "It's a very nice neighborhood. Then we load the presents into the balloon animal bag." Molly blinked. "The bag of balloon animals is going to hold forty presents." "It's a big bag." "It is not a big enough bag, Bill." "We'll improvise." Molly sighed the sigh of a woman who had heard those words before, usually right before something caught fire. She reached into the back seat and pulled out a rubber tiger mask, considering it with the weary resignation of someone who had long ago stopped asking why her life had turned out this way. "If there's a clown in there already," she said, pulling the mask on, "I'm walking." "There's always a clown, Molly." "I hate this job." They stepped out into the rain, two thieves marching toward cake, chaos, and the faint, distant sound of a piñata being murdered.