Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GRKGK9VE9PKB5DMD1352A7

Bill unrolled the blueprint across the diner table and pinned its corners with salt shakers and a syrup dispenser. "Target: the Henderson kid's seventh birthday. Saturday, two p.m., backyard on Maple Street." Molly stirred her coffee without looking up. "A backyard. No walls, no vault, no lasers." "Wrong." He tapped the paper. "Bouncy castle perimeter. Balloon arch at the entrance. And the loot—piled under a card table shaped like a dinosaur." "You're telling me the haul is guarded by a table." "The table's a decoy. The real problem is the clown." Molly looked up. "The clown." "A professional. Eyes on that gift table all afternoon. You never blink around a clown. Rule one of clowns." Molly set her mug down slowly. "I left a diamond job for this." "You left the diamond job because of the jazz hands incident." "Alleged jazz hands. Fine. We go in as parents. Fake kid." Bill shook his head. "They're checking wristbands. Somebody robbed this exact party last year. The whole street's paranoid." "Who robs a seven-year-old?" "Someone without our standards." He stole a sip of her coffee. "We go in as entertainment. You do face painting. I do magic." Molly leaned back in the booth. "You have a magic kit?" "Legally, it's evidence. Spiritually, it's a magic kit." He flipped the blueprint over, revealing a clown drawn in red pen. "And there's this guy. Two hundred pounds of polyester and grief." She studied the drawing. "So we don't beat him. We recruit him." "Recruit a clown." He said it the way other people announce incurable diseases. "Get him talking about his craft. Clowns love their craft. The moment he starts monologuing about balloon architecture, I slip out the side gate, along the fence, under the slip-and-slide, and hit the gift table." "The slip-and-slide will be running. You hate water." "Exactly. Nobody suspects it. During your big finale, every kid's watching you, every parent's filming, and the clown weeps with professional jealousy." "And the getaway?" "Red wagon. Sitting in plain sight. Nobody questions a wagon at a kid's party." Bill stared at her for a long moment, then nodded like a man accepting his destiny. "The wagon's good." "The wagon's great." She stood and dropped a twenty on the table. "One question, though. The birthday kid. We're stealing her presents." "We're stealing her presents, Mol." "I know. I'm asking if you feel anything about that." Bill rolled up the blueprint with the solemnity of a man folding a flag. "I feel that a child with a bouncy castle, a clown, and a dinosaur table can spare a few wrapped boxes." "That was almost poetic." "Thank you." "It was still a crime against a child." "So was the dinosaur table. Have you seen it? It's terrifying." He tucked the blueprint under his arm. "One-thirty, by the Ferguson hedge." "Their dog hates me." "The dog is blind, Bill. He hates everyone equally. That's the beauty of him." Molly grinned and stole a piece of his toast on the way out.