Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD79F65Q6CS0ETZD51FHXPD

Molly spread the blueprint across the hood of Bill's Volvo, pinning the corners down with a juice box and a rubber duck. "Right," she said. "The Henderson birthday party. Saturday, two p.m. Target: forty wrapped presents, estimated value—" "Forty presents for a six-year-old?" "Spoiled kid. Rich parents. Focus, Bill." Bill squinted at the blueprint, which was actually a crayon drawing Molly had bribed off the birthday boy's older sister for five dollars and a promise not to egg their mailbox. "Why does the kitchen have a dragon in it?" "That's the dog. Kevin can't draw dogs. Anyway, we go in through the side gate during the magician. Everyone'll be watching the rabbit trick." "What rabbit trick?" "There's always a rabbit trick, Bill. It's in the Magician's Code." "Is it?" "It's not. But there's always one anyway. Now, the clown arrives at two-fifteen, the piñata happens at two-forty, and that's our window. While thirty sugared-up children are beating a paper donkey to death, we carry the gift table out through the garage." Bill scratched his chin. "Molly." "What." "We're stealing birthday presents from a child." "We're redistributing them." "To us." "We're very needy." Bill folded his arms. "What do we even want with forty presents? Half of them are gonna be Legos." "I love Legos." "You love Legos?" "Bill, I have been casing this party for three weeks specifically because little Tommy Henderson asked for the Millennium Falcon set. Do you know what that retails for?" "Eight hundred dollars." "Eight hundred and fifty. The child's grandmother is loaded, and she shops early." A long silence passed between them. A neighborhood sprinkler hissed somewhere down the block. "Okay," Bill said slowly, "but here's my problem. Even if we get the presents out, what about witnesses? Thirty kids." "Kids are terrible witnesses. I read a study." "What about the parents?" "That's why we're going in disguise." Molly reached into the back seat and pulled out two duffel bags. She unzipped the first with a flourish. Bill stared. "Is that a balloon animal costume?" "Balloon artist costume. There's a difference." "What does a balloon artist wear?" "A vest, Bill. A vest and an air of whimsy. You're my assistant." "Why am I the assistant?" "Because I have the vest." Bill peeked into the second bag. "And this one?" "Backup. In case there's already a balloon artist booked." Bill pulled out a handful of polka-dot fabric and a red nose the size of a plum. He held it up to the light like it had personally offended his ancestors. "Molly, I am a grown man with a mortgage." "And on Saturday, you'll be a grown man with a mortgage and a Millennium Falcon." Bill sighed the sigh of a man who had lost this argument in four previous heists, including the one at the retirement home and the regrettable incident with the church raffle. He put the red nose in his pocket. "Fine. But I pick the getaway music." "Deal." "And if there's cake—" "We do not steal the cake, Bill." "I wasn't going to steal it. I was going to eat some. It's a party, Molly. Have some class."