Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCSH64CZJ5X6N7J6CTT42WC

"You're sure it's a birthday party?" Bill asked, adjusting the collar of his white jacket. Molly didn't look up from the map spread across the dashboard. "Read the invitation, Bill. 'Timothy's Seventh Birthday Extravaganza.' Balloons, pony rides, the works." "And we're stealing all the presents?" "Every last one. The parents went overboard. There's a PlayStation, a bike, probably a robotic dog that does backflips." "Wait, we can't steal the robotic dog. That's technically a pet." "We're not stealing the dog, Bill. Focus." Bill focused. "Okay. So we go in as what? Clowns?" "Bill, we're thirty-four." "Right. Magicians?" "Molly, stop. We go in as caterers. I have the uniforms." "You stole catering uniforms?" "Borrowed. Indefinitely." Bill tugged at his pants. "These are tight." "That's the point. Distraction." "From what?" "From us taking the presents." Bill nodded slowly. "So the plan is: we deliver the cake, they cheer, we grab the loot, we run?" "Close. We deliver the cake, they sing, I disable the cameras, you bag the gifts, we exit through the kitchen." "What about the kids?" "What about them?" "They'll cry." "Bill, we're criminals. Crying is part of the ambiance." "But it's Timothy's seventh birthday." "Exactly. He gets seven birthdays a year if he counts this trauma twice." Bill scratched his head. "That doesn't make sense." "Bill, listen. The parents are loaded. Timothy has three tablets. We're redistributing joy." "To ourselves?" "To the black market for refurbished electronics." Bill smiled. "I like that. Very Robin Hood." "Robin Hood didn't fence Nintendo Switches." "He should have. Kids love Switches." "Precisely. Now, do you have the bag?" "I brought a sack. Like Santa." "Santa doesn't wear catering whites." "I'm a fusion concept." Molly sighed. "The sack is too obvious." "I embroidered it. 'Happy Birthday Timothy.'" "You what?" "It's ironic." "It's evidence." "Fine. I'll use the black garbage bags." "Good. And the getaway car?" "The ice cream truck." "You stole an ice cream truck?" "It's parked outside. The chimes work." "Bill, if you play the chimes, every kid in the neighborhood will chase us." "Then we'll drive faster." "We're stealing presents, not starting a cartoon chase." "Same difference." Molly checked her watch. "Party starts at two. We go in at one-fifty, set up the cake, locate the present table." "It's near the bouncy castle?" "Yes." "I love bouncy castles." "You will not be bouncing, Bill." "Can I at least jump once? For morale?" "No." "You're no fun." "I'm fun. I'm just not inflatable-structure fun." Bill leaned back against the van window. "What if the parents recognize us?" "From where? Your last job was a warehouse in Duluth." "I was on the news." "As 'Unidentified Man in Hoodie.' You're unidentifiable." "I'm identifiable to my mother." "Your mother thinks you're an accountant." "She thinks I'm a disappointment. That's different." Molly pulled out the floor plan. "Present table is here. Exit is here. Kitchen is here. You stand here and do nothing suspicious." "Can I juggle?" "Why would you juggle?" "To blend in? Clown energy but not actually a clown?" "Bill, if you juggle the presents, you'll drop them." "I practice." "On what?" "Eggs." "Bill, we're done with the egg phase." "I miss the egg phase." "Focus. At two-oh-five, the cake comes out. At two-oh-seven, I cut the lights in the gift room using the breaker in the garage." "How do you know where the breaker is?" "I cased the house yesterday as a plumber." "You were a plumber?" "I fixed their sink. Poorly." "Did they pay you?" "They tipped me with information." Bill whistled. "Smooth." "Thank you. Meanwhile, you load the sack—garbage bag—while I keep the parents distracted with questions about gluten." "Are there gluten questions?" "There will be." "You're good at this." "You're adequate." "High praise." "At two-fifteen, we leave through the kitchen, out the back gate, into the ice cream truck, and away." "What do we do with the presents?" "We sell them online. Birthday markup is high." "Even the homemade ones?" "Especially the homemade ones. People pay for nostalgia they never lived." Bill looked out at the suburban street. "Timothy's going to be sad." "Timothy's going to learn about capitalism." "Harsh lesson for seven." "Life's harsh. Cake is sweet. Let's steal both." Bill stood and straightened his tight jacket. "I'm ready. The pants are tight but my heart is tight too. In a good way." "Your heart is not tight." "It's emotionally constricted. Like my pants." "Let's go rob a birthday." "Happy heist day." "It's not a holiday, Bill." "It is now." They stepped out into the afternoon air, the ice cream truck humming quietly with its ridiculous chimes, ready for the worst party of Timothy's life.