Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD7SFGSFK8HQ3JPEYR417MS

Molly spread the blueprint across the hood of the car, anchoring it with a juice box she'd stolen from a gas station, which, in retrospect, was practice. "Okay," she said. "The Henderson birthday party. Saturday. Two o'clock. I count thirty presents, minimum, and one of those big ones that's definitely a bicycle." "A bicycle," Bill repeated, wiping frosting off his chin. He'd been eating a practice cupcake. "Molly, how do we fence a bicycle with little tassels on it?" "Everything sells if you believe in yourself." "I don't believe in myself. That's why I steal." Molly tapped the blueprint, which was actually a crayon drawing she'd bribed off the Hendersons' six-year-old for a dollar. The house had been rendered in purple, and the dog was bigger than the garage. "We go in through the side gate here. The clown arrives at two-fifteen, which gives us cover. Nobody looks at anything while a clown is working. It's science." "It's a felony," Bill said. "It's several felonies wearing a trench coat." "Semantics. Now, the presents are pooled on the picnic table by the pool—" "Alliteration. Love that for us." "—and we load them into the bouncy castle." Bill blinked. "The bouncy castle." "I rented a second bouncy castle. Identical. We do a switch. They're children, Bill. They'll be inside the thing. They won't notice it's moving until we're halfway down the block." "Molly. Honey. A bouncy castle does not have wheels." "It's being towed by the truck." "A bouncing castle. Being towed. Full of screaming children." "No, no, the children stay in the first castle. The presents go in ours. I drew a diagram." She flipped the paper over. There was a stick figure labeled BILL and it appeared to be on fire. "Why am I on fire?" "That's enthusiasm. I couldn't draw enthusiasm." "You drew it as fire." "Moving on." Molly produced two shopping bags with a flourish. "Disguises." Bill pulled out a tiara. "This is a tiara." "You're a princess-for-hire. Kids' parties always have a princess. I checked. There's a whole economy." "And what are you?" Molly held up a badge that read OFFICIAL PRESENT INSPECTOR. "I inspect presents. For safety. There's always one mom who's relieved someone's finally taking charge." "There's never one mom who's relieved of that." "There will be Saturday." Bill put the tiara on. It looked good. He hated that it looked good. "And if we get caught?" "We don't get caught. We have a getaway driver." "You mean your mom." "She has a minivan and unresolved anger. She's perfect." "She thinks we're going to a baby shower." "She'll adapt. Moms always adapt." Bill sighed and adjusted the tiara in the side mirror. Somewhere deep down, past the larceny and the frosting and the dozens of bad decisions stacked like a crooked wedding cake, he felt something almost like professional pride. "Fine," he said. "But I get the big one." "Which big one?" "The one shaped like a ukulele. I've always wanted to learn." "Bill, it's a ukulele for a four-year-old." "Then it'll be my size." He paused. "Also, we should leave the kid one present. We're not monsters." Molly considered this with great solemnity. "Fine. But it has to be a bad one." "There's a bad one?" "There's always a bad one. Somebody's aunt gives them a sweater." "Monstrous," Bill whispered, and they bumped fists over the blueprint while the crayon dog watched in purple judgment.