Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GQSF741S12328WH48TWX37

The stakeout van sat three houses down from the party, windshield plastered with flyers for a clown service nobody remembered hiring. Molly lowered her binoculars—two toilet paper tubes taped together—and pretended they worked. "Status report," she said. Bill consulted his notes, which were a napkin. "Twenty kids. One bouncy castle. Pony on premises. Presents under a dinosaur-shaped table." "A pony." Molly whistled, low and criminal. "We're in the big leagues now." "Remember the ferret store?" Bill shuddered. Some scars never heal, especially ferret-shaped ones. "That ferret had it coming. Focus." She unfolded the map, a crayon drawing bribed off the birthday boy for one juice box. "We go in as caterers during cake. Everyone sings, we load presents into the wagon." "A wagon. Into a party swarming with four-foot detectives." "Kids aren't detectives." "Kids are nothing but detectives. One notices a new shoelace and boom—interrogation." Bill slumped against the horn, which honked mournfully. Somewhere down the street, a dog answered back. He took this as a sign. "We're stealing from children," he muttered. "Children whose parents bought a pony. We're basically Robin Hood." "Robin Hood never fled on a Big Wheel." "He would've, if he'd tried one."