Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPTA0DAQD5R5CG8E72HHTH

The van smelled like old vinyl and older nachos. Molly had the blueprints spread across the dashboard, though calling them blueprints was generous — she'd traced the layout of the Pemberton backyard onto the back of a placemat from a pancake house. "Right," she said. "Bounce house here. Piñata here. Presents on the gift table, northwest corner, under the awning." Bill squinted at the placemat. "Why's there syrup on the bounce house?" "That's not syrup, that's the perimeter fence." "It's shiny." "It's a fence, Bill." He leaned back and folded his arms over a stomach that had defeated three prison diets. "I want it noted that I raised concerns." "Noted." "Formally noted." "There's no form, Bill. There's no committee. It's you, me, and forty-two seven-year-olds." "Forty-two." He whistled low. "That's a lot of little witnesses." "Children are unreliable witnesses. It's documented. One of them will tell the police the thief was a dinosaur." "That's if they even notice. Kids at a party, they're feral. Sugar-blind." He pulled a clown nose out of his jacket pocket and turned it over, mournful. "I still say we go in as entertainment." Molly stared at the nose. "You are not going in as a clown." "Balloon animals get you access, Molly. Balloon animals get you *trust*." "You can't make balloon animals." "I can make a snake." "A snake is a balloon." "It's a snake if I say it's a snake." He put the nose on. It sat crookedly. "Look at me. Would you suspect this face?" "I'd suspect that face of everything ever done in this country." "That's the beauty of it." She took the nose off him and shoved it in the glovebox, where it joined a flashlight, a bag of zip ties, and a birthday card they'd bought for four dollars as cover. "Here's the plan. Two-fifteen, the magician arrives. Everyone goes inside for the show. That's our window — six minutes, maybe eight if the magician's any good." "And if he's bad?" "Then we've got four minutes and a yard full of disappointed children, which is worse than dogs." Bill considered this. "What about the mother? The one with the clipboard." "Deborah." "You know her name?" "I've been watching this house for nine days, Bill, of course I know her name. Deborah runs the party like a military operation. She's got a laminated schedule. She's got a *timer*." "I respect her." "So do I. That's why we're not going anywhere near her." Molly folded the placemat and tucked it into her coat. "You take the gate. I take the table. Anything wrapped, it goes in the bag. Don't get sentimental about it." "When have I ever gotten sentimental." "The bicycle." "That was a *nice bicycle*." "You cried, Bill." "It had a bell." He looked out the window at the distant flutter of streamers, the sad sag of a half-inflated bounce house, the woman with the clipboard pointing at a folding chair like it had insulted her. "Two-fifteen?" "Two-fifteen." "Fine." He reached back into the glovebox. "But the nose comes with me."