Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCWTHCDYH1PNRRF6JW0B962

Molly scratched the map with a neon marker. "We go in through the ball pit." Bill choked on his coffee. "The ball pit? That's for toddlers." "Exactly. Nobody guards toddlers." "We're adults, Molly. We'll sink." "You're skinny." "I'm not skinny! I'm... economically proportioned." She rolled her eyes. "Wear the inflatable dinosaur." "That was for your nephew's birthday!" "And now it's for crime. Circle of life." Bill groaned. "This is a children's party. There will be juice boxes. Clowns." "One clown. And we'll neutralize him." "How? Balloon sword?" "Worse tranquilizer in the punch." "You can't drug children!" "Not the children! The clown! He weighs ninety pounds!" Bill paced. "What about parents?" "Asleep by eight. Kids by nine. We hit at nine-fifteen." "There's a dog." "Molly, there's always a dog." Bill stopped. "The gifts are under a tree?" "Forty-seven presents. Minimum." "Forty-seven? How do you know?" "I counted the RSVPs. Each kid brings one, plus birthday triplets." "Triplets?" "Three-year-old triplets. That's three right there." Bill rubbed his temples. "We need bags." "Santa sacks. From the garage." "Those are for charity!" "Charity starts at home, Bill. Specifically our apartment with no heat." He sighed. "What's the exit?" "Through the bouncy castle. Deflate, slide through window." "I'm not sliding through a window in a dinosaur suit." "Then stay in the ball pit forever." Bill looked at the map. "This is insane." "It's brilliant. Kids are distracted. Parents are drunk on box wine. Security is a baby monitor." "What if we get caught?" "By who? A six-year-old?" Bill paused. "Six-year-olds are vicious." "Exactly why we move fast. In, sack, out." "How long?" "Four minutes." "Four minutes for forty-seven gifts?" "We're professionals." Bill picked up the dinosaur suit. "This smells like regret." "That's victory, Bill. Now put it on." "I'm not putting it on now!" "For morale!" Bill struggled with the inflatable. "The zipper's broken." "Safety pin it." "This is humiliating." "You're a T-Rex with a duffel bag." Bill huffed air into the costume. "I'm going to die in this." "Die rich. Those presents are Lego sets. Gaming consoles. One is a drone." "A drone?" "For the getaway." "You're planning to steal a present that's a drone?" "No, the drone IS the present. For some rich kid." Bill inflated the tail. "This party is tomorrow?" "Seven PM. We arrive at eight-fifty." "Dressed like what?" "I'm going as the magician's assistant." "You're not a magician's assistant." "I'm an unemployed magician's assistant. Perfect cover." Bill looked in the mirror. "I look like a green sausage." "You look intimidating." "I look ridiculous." "Ridiculously dangerous." Bill practiced walking. "I can't see my feet." "Good. You won't step on Lego." "That's true. Lego is painful." "See? Already thinking like a criminal." Bill collapsed onto the chair, the dinosaur suit crinkling. "What if there's security cameras?" "We wear masks." "I'm already wearing a dinosaur head!" "Even better." Bill was quiet. "Molly?" "Yeah?" "This is the dumbest plan you've ever had." She smiled. "That means it's going to work." Bill stood, wobbling. "Let's do this. For the heat bill." "And for justice." "There's no justice in stealing birthday presents!" "There's justice in not freezing to death!" Bill adjusted his tail. "One condition." "What?" "If I get stuck in the ball pit, you leave me." "Never." "If I'm being mauled by a six-year-old, you leave me." "Deal." Bill looked at himself. "I'm a dinosaur." "You're our dinosaur." "Roar." "That was weak." "I'm conserving energy for the heist." Molly grabbed the sacks. "Let's practice the route." Bill waddled behind her. "This suit is loud." "Good. Nobody hears us coming." "I'm serious about the ball pit. I might actually sink." "Then float. You're full of air." Bill stopped at the door. "Molly?" "Yeah?" "I hate you." "Love you too, partner." They walked out, Bill crinkling with every step, Molly carrying forty-seven reasons to commit a felony.