Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE967FH9RZZ7MVFGRBH8C9W

The rain hammered against the window of the van, which smelled like old fries and Bill's cologne, a combination that had never once improved with age. Molly sat cross-legged on a milk crate, studying a crayon drawing of a birthday cake like it held the secrets of the universe. "Explain to me again," Bill said, "why we're casing a seven-year-old's birthday party." "Presents, Bill. Do you know how many presents a kid gets at a party with forty invitees? We're talking Nintendo Switches. Drones. That one kid probably owns a hoverboard." "He's turning seven, not knighting himself." "Rich parents overcompensate. It's basic psychology." Bill rubbed his temples like he could massage the bad decisions right out of his skull. He'd known Molly for eleven years, ever since she picked his pocket at a state fair and then bought him a corndog with his own money out of guilt. Somehow that had seemed charming at the time. "There will be children there, Molly. Actual small humans. With parents. And probably a magician." "A magician works in our favor. Misdirection is literally his whole job." "That's not—" Bill stopped, because arguing logic with Molly was like arguing with a raccoon about garbage. Technically winnable, but not worth the scratches. "Here's the plan," she said, unfolding a hand-drawn map that looked suspiciously like it had been sketched by someone's actual first grader, complete with a stick figure labeled BILL DUMMY. "We dress as clowns." "Absolutely not." "We dress as clowns, we do a little juggling, some balloon animals, classic misdirection, and while everyone's watching us make a poodle out of latex, we slip the gift table into these." She produced two enormous duffel bags with the enthusiasm of a woman unveiling the Mona Lisa. "Those presents are wrapped, Molly. Wrapped presents make noise. Wrapped presents have name tags. Wrapped presents belong to seven-year-olds who will absolutely notice." "Which is why we go in fast, go out faster, and by the time anyone realizes the gift table's empty, we're three counties over eating pancakes." "You've thought about the pancakes but not the getaway route?" "I think about pancakes first. Priorities, Bill." He stared at the clown wig she'd already produced from somewhere—God knew where, the woman kept props like other people kept spare change—and felt the familiar, sinking sensation of a bad idea gaining momentum. "If I say yes," he said slowly, "we are not, under any circumstances, taking the cake." "The cake wasn't even on the list." "It's on your list. I can see it circled in red." "That's for after. Personal use." "Molly." "Bill, focus. The bounce house alone tells me there are at least four unsupervised gift bags near the exit. We walk in, we juggle, we walk out rich. Clowns aren't suspicious, Bill. Clowns are memorable for the wrong reasons." He picked up the wig anyway, defeated, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he was already tasting pancakes.