Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE9STB2B0N684HXZZQD0VWP

The warehouse smelled like stale popcorn and desperation, which Molly figured was appropriate given their target. She spread the blueprints across the card table, weighted down on one corner by a half-empty can of Red Bull. "So here's the layout," she said, tapping the paper. "Kid's turning seven. Party's in the backyard. Presents are on a table by the bounce house." Bill leaned over, squinting. "This is a drawing of a house made of crayons." "It's to scale." "It says 'Timmy's Awesome Party' in glitter glue." "I had to improvise, okay? I couldn't exactly ask the parents for architectural plans." Bill straightened up, arms crossed. "Molly, we're planning to rob seven-year-olds." "We're not robbing the kids. We're robbing the presents. The kids don't even own them yet. Legally speaking, it's basically shoplifting from Toys R Us with extra steps." "That's not how legality works." "Do you want the vintage comic book collection or not? Timmy's uncle apparently has money and terrible gift-wrapping skills." Bill hesitated, which Molly recognized as the sound of a man doing moral math and losing. "Fine. What's the plan?" "We dress as clowns." "Absolutely not." "Bill." "I did clowns last time. I still have nightmares about that unicycle." "Fine, we dress as the bounce house delivery guys. Nobody questions bounce house guys. They're basically invisible, like mall Santas or DMV employees." Bill considered this. "That could work. Where do we even get uniforms?" "I stole two from an actual bounce house company last week." "You planned ahead? Who are you?" "I contain multitudes, Bill." He picked up the crayon drawing again, turning it sideways as if that might help. "So we walk in, take the presents, walk out. That's it?" "That's it. Sixty seconds, tops. In, out, no eye contact with anyone under four feet tall." "What if a kid asks us something?" "Kids don't ask bounce house guys questions. They ask if they can go in the bounce house. You say 'not yet, buddy,' and they lose interest immediately. It's foolproof." "And the parents?" "Parents at a seven-year-old's birthday party are either drunk on mimosas or negotiating a custody-adjacent argument about whose turn it is to watch the cake. Nobody's watching us." Bill sat down slowly, defeated by logic he didn't like. "Why do I feel like this is somehow worse than the bank job." "Because banks have security cameras and this has a inflatable castle full of unsupervised children. Higher stakes, lower dignity." "Great. Love that for us." Molly folded the crayon map and slipped it into her jacket. "We go in twenty minutes. Wear the uniform. Smile a lot. And Bill—" "What?" "Do not, under any circumstances, agree to do the limbo." "When has that ever come up?" "It always comes up, Bill. It always comes up."