Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GRHD93ATS9NFPQ0YS8CCE5

Molly crouched behind the azalea bushes at the end of Willow Crescent, binoculars pressed to her face, a notebook balanced on her knee. Beside her, Bill lay flat in the grass, wearing a camouflage jacket he'd bought from a fishing shop despite never fishing. "Status report," he whispered. "Twelve children. One clown. A golden retriever. And the prize: a present table beside the piñata." The banner named the dog Biscuit. A grandmother in a lawn chair surveyed the yard like a prison guard. Bill consulted the napkin on which he'd sketched the operation. It resembled a potato with anxiety. He traced its perimeter with one finger, frowning like the masterminds in documentaries. "We go over the side gate, bag the presents, out in three minutes." "The gate has a lock." "I can crack a lock." "It's a pool noodle in the latch, Bill. You once got trapped in a revolving door." Bill opened his mouth to object, then closed it. The hotel had banned him. There was a photograph. Molly lowered the binoculars and rubbed the bridge of her nose, a gesture she reserved exclusively for conversations with Bill. "Children, Bill. They're small, fast, and fearless. It's whack-a-mole, but the moles scream and their parents sue." "We're not tackling children, Molly. We're present thieves. We have standards." "What standards? Last month we stole a charity raffle." "And I still feel bad. That's a standard." Bill adjusted his jacket with the dignity of a man not yet defeated by a pool noodle. "Rich parents put actual tablets in gift bags, Molly. The kid can't read." "Neither can you. The invitation said six. The mailbox balloon says seven. Wrong house—" She stopped. Raised the binoculars. Squinted. "No. It's deflated. An older sibling's balloon. Nobody took it down." "See? Fate." From the yard came a shriek. Bill flinched. Molly did not. The clown had produced a balloon animal, and twelve children lost their minds simultaneously. Somewhere, a party horn answered. "New problem," Bill said. "You create a distraction. I hit the table." "I'm good with locks, Bill. People terrify me. That's why I rob from a distance." "Fine. I'll do it. I'll be an entertainer. Kids love entertainers." "They already have a clown." "Then I'll be a better clown. A faster clown." Molly stared at him the way one stares at a dog about to eat a bee. "You can't out-clown a professional. That's how you get stabbed with a balloon sword." Bill turned back to the hedge. Beyond it, a small boy had wandered off from the group, dragging a wrapped present nearly his own size, enormously pleased with himself. "New plan," Bill said quietly. "We don't steal anything." "What?" "Look at that kid. Look how happy he is. It's disgusting." "So we steal it faster?" "No, Molly. We go home, and I reevaluate my life." "...The tablet, though." "The tablet," Bill agreed solemnly, folding his napkin. "We take the tablet and nothing else. We're not monsters." The squirrel who had heard everything buried an acorn in judgment.