Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GRXW9DEEN7KH8N5PNYRVSD

The getaway van idled in the shade of a sycamore across from 42 Maple Drive, where a banner reading HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY, KYLE! sagged between two lampposts like a flag of surrender. Molly swept the house with her binoculars while Bill demolished a bag of cheese puffs with the focus of a bomb technician. "Fifteen minivans in the driveway," she said. "Bounce house in the backyard." Bill lowered the bag. "I have moral concerns." "Noted." "Concerns about stealing from children." "We're stealing from parents who overcompensate. Nobody needs forty presents. We're performing a correction." Bill stared at her. Twenty years of partnership and she could still surprise him. "Where was this philosophy during my childhood?" "Probably fencing your bike. Focus." She consulted a folder thick as a phone book. "No security. One dog." "What kind of dog?" "Golden retriever." Bill wrote it down anyway, because that was the kind of crew they were. "So we're good on the dog." "We're good on the dog. The problem is the clown." Bill's stomach dropped. He had faced vault doors, lasers, and a cartel boss crying about his mother, but his hands still shook as he raised the binoculars. Across the street, a man in a polka-dot jumpsuit was twisting a balloon giraffe for a semicircle of transfixed five-year-olds. Chuckles the Magnificent, the dossier read. Balloon animals, juggling, close-up magic. "Clowns and I have history." "Everybody has history with clowns. That's their whole business model." "The last clown I crossed left me in a Reno fountain with a rubber chicken down my pants." "You emerged stronger. Here's the play. I'm the caterer. You're a dad." She unfolded a map of the backyard, annotated in red pen. "Why am I the dad?" "Because you radiate defeated-dad energy. When the clown starts his act, lead the birthday song. Everyone sings, nobody watches the table, I wheel out the recycling bin full of presents." "Recycling bin." "It's a heist, Bill, not a fashion show." He had no comeback for that. He never did. "And if someone asks whose dad I am?" "Say you're Kevin's dad." "Who's Kevin?" "You are now. Congratulations, your son loves dinosaurs and bites." Through the windshield, the birthday boy himself—cape, mask, snow boots—was circling a piñata like a tiny warden guarding his most valuable prisoner. Bill watched him and felt something twist in his chest. "Are we sure about this, Mol? These are children." Molly was quiet for a moment. Then she reached over and squeezed his hand. "Twenty years. We've robbed a casino, a museum, and a man who fakes his own sneezes. Tomorrow some kid gets thirty presents instead of forty, cries for four minutes, then plays with the box. He'll be fine." Bill sighed and pulled his cap down low. "Kevin's dad. Tired. Defeated." "Last thing. If the clown recognizes me?" Molly popped her gum and smiled like a woman who had already spent the money. "Then you juggle, Bill. You juggle like your life depends on it."