Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE924K3DWBST9Y80QAJRW22

The van smelled like stale coffee and regret, which Bill figured was appropriate given their line of work. He'd parked it three houses down from the Hendersons' place, where a pink banner reading "Emma Turns 7!" flapped cheerfully in the breeze like it had no idea what was coming. Molly was studying the house through binoculars she definitely didn't need, since they were parked close enough to smell the birthday cake. "Twelve presents," she said, not looking up. "Maybe fourteen. I counted twice." "Fourteen presents for one seven-year-old? What's she getting, a pony?" "Ponies don't come wrapped, Bill." "Some do. If you're rich enough." Molly lowered the binoculars and gave him a look that suggested she questioned every decision that had led her to this particular partnership. "The plan is simple. I go in dressed as the entertainment. You wait by the side gate with the bag. We grab the presents during the piñata distraction, we're gone before anyone notices." "I still don't understand why I can't be the entertainment." "Because you can't do a balloon animal to save your life, and last time you tried to be a clown you made a child cry." "That child was going through some stuff." "You called her a 'gremlin' and told her Santa was watching her specifically." "He is, though. That's the whole point of Santa." Molly rubbed her temples, a gesture Bill recognized as the physical manifestation of her considering whether the fourteen presents were worth the headache of working with him. "Just stick to the plan. Side gate. Bag. Presents. Simple." "And if someone sees me?" "You tell them you're the pizza delivery guy." "We don't have a pizza." "Then you improvise, Bill. It's called improvise. It's a skill some people have." Bill considered this insult beneath a response and instead focused on smoothing down his ridiculous rented clown wig, the one Molly insisted made him "blend in" despite the fact that it was neon green and looked like it had personally offended several small children already that morning just by existing in their vicinity. "What if the piñata distraction doesn't work?" "It'll work. Nothing distracts children faster than the possibility of candy raining from the sky." "Unless the candy's the sugar-free kind. Then they riot." "We're stealing candy-adjacent presents, Bill, not orchestrating a revolution. Focus." He adjusted the wig one final time, feeling less like a criminal mastermind and more like a man about to be arrested at a child's birthday party, which, considering the circumstances, was an entirely reasonable fear to have. "Fine," he said. "Side gate, bag, presents. But if this goes wrong—" "It won't." "But if it does—" "Then we run, Bill. Like always." She was already climbing out of the van, straightening her ridiculous magician's cape with the confidence of someone who had never once considered that stealing from seven-year-olds might constitute a new low, even for them. "Now come on. Fourteen presents. And possibly a pony."