Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCTAEXGWQ2MFZ9F0ADN0QJC

Molly adjusted the binoculars and squinted through the condensation on the van window. Outside, a suburban lawn exploded with streamers, a bouncy castle, and approximately forty screaming children wielding juice boxes like weapons. Bill peeled the lid off a tub of potato salad and frowned. "You said this was a bank." "I said it was a score. Look at that pile by the patio. Gift bags stacked like a pyramid. That’s liquid assets, Bill. Wrappable, resellable liquid assets." "You want to rob a birthday party." "I want to liberate presents from a demographic that can’t drive yet. There’s a moral gray area, but it’s mostly gray because I’m wearing a black turtleneck." Bill licked a spoon. "They’re six years old, Molly. One of them is dressed as a dinosaur with googly eyes. You gonna mug a dinosaur?" "Only if he’s carrying electronics. I heard there’s a drone in Box Number Seven. A drone, Bill. Do you know what a drone fetches on the secondary market? More than your car." Bill leaned back against the dashboard. "What’s the plan? We kick down the door and shout 'stick 'em up' at a clown?" Molly pulled a laminated floor plan from her jacket. "We enter through the garden gate at fourteen hundred. The parents are distracted by a magician who pulls quarters out of ears. We wear the catering uniforms I stole from the bakery. You carry the cake tray—empty—while I sweep the present table into the duffel. We exit through the garage before the piñata breaks at fourteen thirty-two. Twelve minutes. Clean. Professional." "You want me to wear a baker hat?" "I want you to wear dignity, but yes, also the hat." Bill stared at the balloons tied to the mailbox. "There’s a pony. I saw a pony." "The pony is not in the target zone. Stay focused." "What if they cry?" "Children cry when they lose a balloon, Bill. They won’t notice forty-seven wrapped boxes vanishing if we replace them with confetti and a polite note." "You wrote a note?" "Dear Partygoers, Your generosity has been redistributed to adults with rent. Enjoy the cupcakes. Sincerely, The Economy." Bill sighed and reached for another spoonful of salad. "This is the lowest we’ve sunk." "We once stole a yacht made of ice. This is climate-controlled and has good parking." "Fine. But I’m not taking the dinosaur’s present. Even I have standards." "The dinosaur gets the socks. The socks stay. Everything with a barcode or a lithium battery goes in the bag." Molly checked her watch. "Uniforms on in ninety seconds. Remember your line: 'Extra cupcakes for table four.' That’s the signal. Once I nod, you drop the tray—gently, it’s ceramic—and we sweep." Bill pulled the white apron over his head. It said "Happy Baking" with a picture of a smiling croissant. "If my mother asks what I did today, I’m telling her I catered." "You catered chaos, Bill. Now stop eating the evidence and grab the duffel. The magician is already pulling quarters out of ears, and I intend to pull presents out of innocence." They slid out of the van, two figures in ill-fitting white, walking calmly toward a gate decorated with rainbows, armed with nothing but audacity, a ceramic tray, and a complete absence of shame.