Run: 2026-07-01-01KWE9X8TA68XXNVEZ1F8WJ28C

The van smelled like feet and stale nachos, which Bill insisted was "atmospheric" and Molly insisted was "a crime scene waiting to happen." They'd parked three houses down from the Hendersons', where seventeen balloons shaped like dinosaurs bobbed against the mailbox like they were guarding something sacred. "Okay," Bill said, unrolling a crumpled napkin covered in what he called "tactical diagrams" and what Molly called "the scribbles of a man who shouldn't be trusted with crayons." "The presents are gonna be on the table by the cake. Big table. Probably covered in one of them plastic tablecloths with balloons on it." "You've been casing a seven-year-old's birthday party for two weeks." "Recon, Molly. It's called recon." "It's called sad. You know what's sad, Bill? A grown man memorizing the patrol patterns of a bouncy castle." Bill ignored her, tapping the napkin with authority he hadn't earned. "The bouncy castle's the real threat. Kids go in, they don't come out for hours. It's basically a black hole. But it also means less eyes on the present table." "Or," Molly said, "more moms hovering around with phones, documenting every second of little Tyler's magical day." "Nobody's named Tyler in there. I checked the mailbox. It's a kid named Baxter." "You checked the mailbox." "Recon." Molly rubbed her temples like she was trying to massage the last of her dignity back into her skull. "We're stealing birthday presents from a six-year-old named Baxter." "Seven. There's a banner." "You read the banner too?" "It said 'Happy 7th Birthday, Baxter, Future King of the Jungle,' which, frankly, feels aggressive for a kid who probably still needs help wiping." "This is our life now. This is what we do." Bill folded the napkin with the solemnity of a general folding a flag. "Look, the market's flooded. Nobody's buying stolen jewelry anymore, everyone's got a fence who got busted, the whole scene's amateur hour. But presents? Presents are pure. Nobody suspects the guy walking out of a kid's party holding a stack of wrapped boxes. We just look like uncles." "We don't look like anybody's uncles, Bill. You're wearing a ski mask." "It's cold." "It's June." "I run cold." Molly stared out the window at the balloons, at the little paper plates fluttering off the folding table in the yard, at a woman in a sundress chasing a toddler with a juice box like her life depended on it. Somewhere inside that yard was a table full of presents wrapped by people who loved a kid named Baxter enough to buy him Legos and dinosaur pajamas and probably something with batteries that would scream at three in the morning. "We're going to hell," she said. "Nah," Bill said, pulling his ski mask down. "We're going to Baxter's birthday party. Grab the crowbar. It's shaped like a present bow. Very festive."