Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE9RVJ63GC7PFQDDPGRV2GF

The rain hammered against the window of the rented van, and Bill checked his watch for the fourth time in as many minutes. Across from him, Molly was adjusting a fake mustache that made her look less like a clown and more like a confused walrus. "Take that off," Bill said. "You look ridiculous." "I'm supposed to look ridiculous. It's a children's party, Bill. Nobody questions a ridiculous adult at a children's party. That's, like, the whole point of children's parties." Bill sighed and pulled the party invitation from his jacket pocket, the one they'd lifted from the Hendersons' mailbox three days ago. Timmy Henderson's seventh birthday. Superhero theme. Presents expected between two and four o'clock, according to the surveillance they'd done on the family's group chat, which Molly had hacked with disturbing ease. "The plan is simple," Bill said, for what felt like the hundredth time. "We go in as entertainment. I'm the magician. You're my assistant. We do a few tricks, we case the present table, and when the kids go outside for the piñata, we grab everything and go." "What if there's no piñata?" "There's always a piñata, Molly." "What if the piñata is, like, symbolic? What if it's a metaphor piñata and they don't actually break it?" Bill stared at her. "A metaphor piñata." "I'm just saying, rich people do weird things now. Gender reveal piñatas. Divorce piñatas. I saw one shaped like a stock certificate." "There is no such thing as a divorce piñata." "There absolutely is. I stole from one in Connecticut." Bill decided not to pursue this further. He'd learned, after four heists together, that certain rabbit holes with Molly led nowhere good. He pulled the van into the gated community, past manicured hedges shaped like animals that probably cost more than his apartment. "Just remember," he said, "we're not touching anything until the piñata. We stick to the act. Card tricks, a little sleight of hand, maybe the rope trick if the kids are patient." "They're seven. They have the attention span of a golden retriever." "Then we keep it short." Molly pulled a rubber chicken from her bag and squeezed it, producing a mournful squawk. "This is for the finale." "There is no chicken in the plan." "There is now. I improvised." The house came into view, a sprawling Colonial with balloons tied to every pillar and a banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY TIMMY in letters big enough to see from space. Through the front window, Bill could already spot the present table, stacked high with boxes wrapped in shiny paper, ribbons curling like question marks. "Look at that," Molly whispered, suddenly reverent. "That's easily four grand in loot. Maybe five." "Focus," Bill said, though he was looking too. "Magician and assistant. In, entertain, out. No chickens unless absolutely necessary." Molly grinned, tucking the rubber chicken into her sleeve like a switchblade. "No promises." Bill killed the engine and reached for his top hat. Somewhere inside, a child was already screaming with the kind of joy that meant this was going to be very, very loud.