Run: 2026-07-01-01KWEA0TSM5MB77V7XJCS9QEBQ

The warehouse smelled like old cardboard and Bill's cheap cologne, which Molly had complained about every single day for the past three years. She spread the blueprint across a folding table—not blueprints, really, just a crayon drawing of a house that she'd bribed a seven-year-old to make. "This is our target," Molly said, tapping the drawing. "The Hendricksons. Timmy's turning eight. Bounce house, clown, the works." Bill squinted at the paper. "Why does the clown have three eyes?" "Kids can't draw, Bill." "That's disturbing." "Focus." Molly pulled out a second sheet, this one covered in more legitimate-looking notes. "Presents get piled on the dining room table until the birthday song. That's our window. Fourteen minutes, tops, while everyone sings and Timmy blows out candles." "Fourteen minutes to clear a table of Legos and Barbies," Bill said, rubbing his chin. "Feels tight." "We've robbed banks in less time." "Banks don't have bounce houses full of screaming children who might identify us later in a lineup." "They will not be identifying anyone. We're wearing the costumes." Bill looked up slowly. "What costumes." Molly slid two folded outfits across the table. Bill unfurled his and held up a full-body dinosaur suit in a shade of purple that did not occur in nature. "I am not wearing this." "You're the entertainment, Bill. Barney's cousin. Barnaby. Nobody questions Barnaby." "Everybody will question Barnaby. Barnaby looks like he's been in a car accident." "That's the point! Distraction. Parents will be so busy explaining to their kids why the dinosaur looks sad, they won't notice me backing a delivery van into the driveway." Bill held the suit at arm's length like it might bite him. "And what am I supposed to do in this? Dance?" "You're going to do the Macarena. Slowly. Menacingly." "There is no menacing way to do the Macarena." "There is now." He sighed, already knowing this argument was lost, the way all arguments with Molly were eventually lost—through sheer exhaustion rather than persuasion. "Fine. But if this goes sideways, I want it on record that I said the dinosaur idea was insane." "Duly noted. Now, the getaway van—" "Also insane, since it says 'Big Bill's Bounce House Rentals' on the side, which is not a real company." "I registered it last week. It's very real. I have a website." Bill stared at her. "You built a website for a fake company to rob an eight-year-old's birthday party." "Presentation matters, Bill." "You know we're stealing Legos, right? Not the crown jewels." Molly rolled up the crayon blueprint with the solemnity of a general folding a battle map. "Timmy," she said, "has a limited edition Star Wars set worth four hundred dollars on the resale market. This is not amateur hour." Bill looked down at the dinosaur suit, then back at her, then at the suit again. "The tail's got a hole in it," he said. "Then don't bend over." "I'm going to be bending over the entire time doing the Macarena." "Then I guess," Molly said, already walking away, "you'll just have to be careful."