Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE94MGW2R1EPXPTH9HR43G2

The rain hammered against the windshield of the stolen minivan, which smelled faintly of goldfish crackers and broken dreams. Molly adjusted the rearview mirror, checking her disguise for the fourteenth time. The clown wig itched something fierce. "I still think this is beneath us," Bill muttered, tugging at his balloon-animal-print vest. "We robbed a casino in Monaco, Molly. Monaco. And now we're casing a six-year-old's birthday party." "Timmy Baxter's parents run a diamond import business," Molly said, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper covered in her handwriting. "That means presents from Timmy Baxter's birthday party are not your average Tickle-Me-Elmo situation. We're talking bespoke jewelry, imported chocolates, possibly a small yacht wrapped in paper featuring dinosaurs." "A yacht." "A small one." Bill stared out at the suburban house across the street, its lawn currently occupied by an inflatable bounce castle shaped like a castle, which felt redundant to him but he chose not to mention it. Balloons in seventeen colors bobbed along the fence line. A banner reading HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY TIMMY flapped in the wind like it was mocking them personally. "How do we even get past the bouncer?" Bill asked. "The what?" "The bounce castle. There's clearly a person whose entire job is standing there making sure kids don't hurt themselves. That's a bouncer." Molly rubbed her temples. "It's called a party monitor, Bill. And we're not sneaking past her. We're going in as entertainment. I already emailed the mom pretending to be from 'Giggles and Grins Party Services.' We're doing balloon animals and face painting." "I don't know how to make balloon animals." "Nobody does, Bill. You just twist them until they look like abstract suffering and call it a giraffe." Bill considered this. It was, he had to admit, sound criminal philosophy. "And the presents?" he asked. "They're just going to let two clowns waltz off with a mountain of gifts?" Molly grinned, the kind of grin that had once convinced a Swiss banker to hand over his own vault codes voluntarily. "We're not stealing them during the party, genius. We're stealing them during the piñata." "The piñata." "Every kid at that party is going to be so busy beating a paper donkey to death for candy that nobody will notice two party clowns quietly loading gift bags into a rented minivan disguised as a snow cone truck." Bill blinked. "We have a snow cone truck?" "We have a truck with a snow cone sticker on it. Details, Bill." He sighed and reached for the box of face paint sitting between them, popping open a tube of blue. "For the record, if I end up in prison because of a six-year-old's Paw Patrol themed birthday party, I will never forgive you." "You say that every job," Molly said, opening the van door and stepping out into the rain, wig bobbing absurdly. "Now come on. Timmy's parents aren't getting any younger, and neither is that yacht."