Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE94VEHHEDJWAVPM430GEN0

The warehouse smelled like mildew and bad decisions, which suited Molly just fine. She spread the blueprint across the table—a crayon drawing she'd stolen from a preschool bulletin board. "This is not a blueprint, Molly," Bill said, squinting at a stick figure holding balloons. "This is art. Bad art." "It's Timmy Baxter's seventh birthday party layout, drawn by an actual eyewitness. Kid's practically a spy." "The kid is six." "Seven on Saturday. Focus." Molly jabbed a finger at a lopsided rectangle labeled "HOWS" in shaky letters. "This is the house. Presents will be stacked here, in the living room, guarded by—" "Balloon animals?" "Grandmothers, Bill. Multiple grandmothers. They're the real threat." Bill leaned back, arms crossed. "I don't like it. Grandmothers have radar. They can smell a stranger from the casserole table." "Which is why we're not strangers. We're the entertainment." Molly held up two costumes—a rumpled dinosaur suit and something that might have once been a unicorn. "You're Barney's cousin. I'm... whatever this is." "Absolutely not." "Bill. We walk in, we do a little song, we grab the loot during the piñata distraction, we walk out. Clean." "Nothing about wearing a headless unicorn costume is clean." "The head's in the bag. I'll put it on for the show." Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. "And the piñata? Who's swinging the bat?" "You are. Obviously." "Why obviously?" "Because I'm the unicorn, Bill. Unicorns don't swing bats. It's against their whole brand." "Their brand." Bill stared at the ceiling like it might offer an exit. "Fine. I swing the bat, kids scatter for candy, we grab the presents. Then what? We just walk out the front door with forty pounds of wrapped Legos?" "Through the side gate. I already scouted it. There's a hole in the fence perfect for present-sized loads." "You scouted a six-year-old's backyard." "Seven-year-old. And yes. Professionally." Bill exhaled, long and slow, the exhale of a man who'd made peace with terrible ideas before and lived to regret each one. "What's the count on presents, anyway?" "Baxter family invited forty kids. Assume two gifts each, minimum. That's eighty presents, Bill. Eighty." "That's also eighty angry children." "Only if we get caught." "We're wearing a unicorn costume with no head and swinging a bat at children's candy. We're going to get caught." "Not if the getaway van's running." Molly grinned, already reaching for the unicorn head. "Speaking of—did you fix the muffler?" "No." "Bill." "It makes us sound like a dinosaur, which, considering our costumes, honestly works thematically." Molly paused, head half-on. "You're not wrong." "I'm rarely wrong. Just occasionally regretful." She snapped the unicorn head into place, voice muffled. "Regret's for after the piñata, Bill. Let's go steal a birthday."