Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCTH4H4G57RP59D9PEWHKK6

Bill flattened the blueprint across the sticky booth. Molly stabbed her spoon into a milkshake that had achieved sidewalk consistency. "We're doing it," Bill said. "Saturday. Three p.m. Henderson twins' party at the community center. Forty-seven registered gifts." Molly didn't look up. "Forty-seven? That's not a heist. That's a logistics nightmare with juice boxes." Bill tapped the map. "Exactly. We need camouflage. No ski masks." "So we dress as clowns?" Molly asked. "I have boundaries." "Not clowns. Caterers." Bill straightened an imaginary tie. "Black pants, trays of shrimp puffs. We glide in like culinary ghosts." "You want to serve appetizers while robbing toddlers?" Molly snorted. "Bill, that's not misdirection, that's catering with a felony." "Psychology," Bill said. "You feed them canapés, they lower their guard. I bag the loot." Molly stirred her shake. "What loot? Lego and stuffed animals?" "High-value items," Bill said. "Gaming console. Maybe a drone." "It's a five-year-old's birthday," Molly said. "The only high-value item is the sugar crash." Bill traced a line on the map. "Entry through the kitchen service door. Latch older than democracy. My cousin works maintenance. He owes me from the raccoon wedding." "I don't want details," Molly said. "Good. Exit through the balloon arch. We collapse it behind us—chaos. Load the van, painted like a party truck." "Balloons in February?" Molly said. "Nobody buys balloons in winter." "They will when ours floats away carrying forty-seven presents," Bill said. Molly sipped. "What about the piñata?" "We leave it," Bill said. "It's a donkey full of candy and broken dreams," Molly said. "I'm taking it." "Fine. But we leave the cake. I'm not a monster." "You're stealing gifts from children," Molly said. "The monster train already left the station." Bill folded his hands. "We are redistributors of joy. Those kids have too many toys. We have rent." "That sounds like a villain monologue," Molly said. "In this economy," Bill said, "everyone's a villain." Molly pushed her cup away. "What's my job?" Bill slid over a name tag: MOLLY—EVENT SPECIALIST. "Event specialist?" "You smile, hand out napkins, ask about allergies," Bill said. "Meanwhile I wear an apron that says 'Chef Bill' and fill black garbage bags." "Garbage bags? For stolen birthday presents?" "Classy black ones," Bill said. "What if we're caught?" "Use your charm," Bill said. "Remember the security guard?" "He was lonely and possibly hallucinating," Molly said. "But okay. I'll tell the twins I'm a fairy godmother with a tax problem." "Perfect. Meanwhile I avoid Mr. Waffles." "There's a dog?" "Small. Don't make eye contact." Molly stood, pulling on her worn coat. "This is your worst plan. And you've proposed a submarine heist." Bill stood, leaving a tip of loose change. "This is art, Molly. High art with shrimp puffs." Molly headed for the door. "If I'm arrested, I'm blaming you." Bill raised his coffee cup. "To the heist." Molly pulled her collar up. "To prison. At least we'll have appetizers."