Run: 2026-07-01-01KWEA3WYKCR8G13NVB49SMJA4

The van reeked of stale coffee and desperation, which Molly figured was appropriate given their current career trajectory. She spread the blueprints across the dashboard—actual blueprints, because Bill had insisted on stealing them from the party planner's office instead of just asking for the address like a normal person. "Explain to me again," Molly said, "why we're robbing a seven-year-old's birthday party." "Because," Bill said, tapping the paper with unnecessary drama, "Timmy Henderson's parents are loaded. Tech money. You know how much stuff gets crammed into one of these parties?" "I know it's going to be a Bounce house situation, Bill. There will be children." "There will be presents, Molly. Presents unattended by responsible adults who are all distracted by mimosas and passive-aggressive conversations about preschool applications." Molly rubbed her temples. "This is different from banks. Banks don't have clowns." "I've accounted for the clown." "You've accounted for the clown." "Rodrigo. He's a friend of mine. Retired from clowning, actually, moved into balloon animal consulting, but he owes me a favor." "What kind of favor makes a man put on a clown suit again?" "The kind where I didn't tell his wife about Reno." Molly stared at him. "I don't want to know." "Good, because I wasn't going to tell you." She pulled the ski masks from her bag—small, unfortunately, because that's all the store had, and now they both looked like they were about to rob a preschool, which, well. "These masks make us look like we're stealing juice boxes." "We ARE stealing juice boxes. Among other things." "Bill. We are adults. We are stealing birthday presents from children." "We're stealing UNOPENED birthday presents from children who won't remember what they got in six months anyway. It's basically charity. For us." "That's not how charity works." "It's charity-adjacent." Bill unfolded a second sheet, this one covered in his terrible handwriting, arrows pointing every direction like a conspiracy theorist's fever dream. "Okay. Rodrigo distracts the parents with balloon swords. You and I slip into the gift room—there's always a gift room, it's very organized, rich people are weirdly organized about their chaos—and we load the bags." "And the getaway?" "Ice cream truck." Molly blinked. "We're stealing an ice cream truck?" "We're borrowing one. Temporarily. From my cousin Dave." "Does Dave know?" "Dave will know." "That's not the same thing, Bill." "Look, do you want the money or do you want to interrogate my logistics?" Molly considered this. Considered the mortgage payment sitting on her kitchen table with increasingly aggressive red stamps. Considered the fact that Bill's plans, despite everything, somehow always worked, in the same way a shopping cart with a bad wheel somehow always makes it to the checkout. "Fine," she said. "But if we get chased by a bounce house, I'm blaming you specifically." "Deal. Also, wear comfortable shoes. There might be a piñata." "Why would there be running involved with a piñata?" Bill just grinned, and started the van.