Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCR5V94FJX9QANJ96D7P898

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the hood of the van, smoothing it with the reverence of a surgeon, though it was actually a place mat from a pizzeria with a bouncy castle drawn on it in eyeliner. Bill leaned in, chewing a licorice rope he had stolen from a gas station as a warm-up exercise. The plan was elegant. The presents would be stacked on a folding table beneath the gazebo, unguarded except by a grandmother who, according to three days of surveillance, fell asleep sometime around the second round of pin the tail on the donkey. Molly had timed it. Forty-one minutes of viable extraction window, assuming the cake came out on schedule. "Twelve kids," she said. "Maybe fourteen. And one clown." Bill stopped chewing. His face did something complicated. "I hate clowns," he said. She ignored him and tapped the eyeliner sketch, indicating the hedge where they would stash the wheelbarrow. Costumes were in the back: two enormous foam dinosaurs, purchased legitimately, which felt like a betrayal of their principles. Bill's had a broken zipper. Molly's smelled of another man's ambition. Somewhere across town, a seven-year-old named Dexter was blowing up balloons, blissfully unaware, and Molly almost felt guilty. Almost.