Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GS2ZSDKR3VKKBRWRCYTGZ3

The blueprint was spread across the kitchen table, pinned at the corners by a bag of frozen peas, a jar of pickles, and one profoundly uninterested cat. Molly stood over it wearing her reading glasses, which she reserved exclusively for planning crimes. Bill sat across from her, still in his coat, wondering when his life had come to this. "This is Pinecrest Community Hall," Molly said, tapping the paper. "One fire exit, eleven tables, and a bouncy castle in the northeast corner — our primary obstacle." "It's a birthday party, Molly. For a seven-year-old." "Her name is Kayla, she's turning eight, and she's old enough to remember faces. That makes her a witness." Molly uncapped a marker with her teeth. "The presents go on the gift table by the window. Parents are busiest during cake, two fifteen to two forty." Bill stared at the rectangle. "Twenty-five minutes?" "Generous. The Vienna job gave us eleven." "The Vienna job was a bank." "And this is harder. Children notice everything; adults notice nothing. Walk through that hall in a clown nose and every parent assumes you're entertainment." Bill rubbed his eyes, and it occurred to him — slowly, with mounting dread — exactly where this was going. There was a wig on the counter behind Molly that he hadn't noticed until now. It was enormous. It was fuchsia. It radiated a theatrical menace he couldn't articulate. "Here's my problem," he said carefully. "You want us to go in as clowns." "Magenta and Bojo," said Molly, as if that settled the matter. "Why am I Magenta?" "Because the wig suits your face." Bill opened his mouth, closed it, and glanced at the wig, which seemed to glance back. Then he pointed at a small circle on the blueprint. "What's that?" "The piñata. At two thirty, every child in that hall swarms it for candy. Sheer chaos." "Good for us?" "Terrible for us. You never engage a mob of sugar-crazed eight-year-olds, Bill. You retreat, and you flank." "Flank a piñata." "Flank the cake table." She drew a quick, confident arrow — the arrow of a woman who had flanked many things. "You load the loot bag. I keep lookout and make balloon animals. A clown who isn't making balloon animals is a suspicious clown." Bill was quiet for a long moment. He looked at the blueprint, at the wig, at the cat, which appeared to be judging them both. "Have you considered that we're stealing presents from children?" Molly set down her pen. The professional facade flickered into something almost ashamed. "Extensively," she said. "Anything handmade goes back. Anything from a grandmother goes back. We're not monsters, Bill." "That's genuinely worse somehow." "And we leave a replacement gift. Something educational, but still fun." "A consolation prize." "A puzzle cube. It builds spatial reasoning." She rolled up the blueprint with the brisk authority of a general. "Go home and sleep. Big day tomorrow. And Bill?" "Yeah?" "Practice your balloon animals. Last time, your swan looked like a medical emergency."