Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GTG74MVZDWGN8ABP2HHQX8

The plan fit on a single sheet of paper, and the paper had a dinosaur sticker in the corner. Molly smoothed it flat on the diner table between two cups of coffee. The place was empty except for a trucker two booths down who had stopped listening an hour ago. Bill studied the map over his reading glasses. "Walk me through it again. Because from where I'm sitting, this is a crayon drawing of a bouncy castle." "That's because it is a crayon drawing of a bouncy castle. Drawn by the birthday boy himself. Tommy, age eight. Our intel." "Our intel is a child." "Our intel is a child who wants a Pikachu. You'd be amazed what a kid will tell you for the promise of a Pikachu." Bill took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Molly, I've done banks. I've done casinos. I once lifted a diamond out of a museum while it was guarded by lasers. Why are we stealing from a party?" "Because banks have cameras, casinos have guards, and parties have piñatas." "A piñata." "Weaponized candy, Bill. It's chaos theory in paper-mâché form." Bill stared at her. "Fine. The security situation?" Molly tapped a stick figure on the map. "One dad. Greg. Cargo shorts, t-shirt that says Grill Sergeant. He's the only adult watching the present table, and only until the cake comes out." "What happens at the cake?" "Chocolate fudge. His wife's recipe. When that cake hits the table, Greg loses all situational awareness. He becomes a man possessed." "So we hit the presents during the cake." "During the cake." Bill nodded, then frowned. "And the kids?" "Thirty-eight of them, already running on sugar. We go in as the entertainment." "Entertainment." "Birthday Fairy and her assistant. You're wearing the tutu." "Why am I wearing the tutu?" "Because I did the math, and the math says the tutu is yours." "That's not math, Molly. That's a grudge." "Semantics." She slid a napkin across the table with a backyard sketched on it. "Presents go under the banner here. Conservative estimate, forty gifts. Fifty if the grandparents show. Grandparents always over-gift." "And the getaway?" "Prius, two blocks over. We load up, we say the magic words—'somebody needs a napkin'—and we vanish in the chaos." "The chaos of a napkin." "Kids, Bill. They scatter like pigeons." Bill sat back and stared at the ceiling. "One thing bothers me." "One thing?" "The clown. Bottom corner of Tommy's drawing. Red hair, big shoes." Molly went still. "There's no clown on the invitation." She grabbed her phone, thumbs flying. "That's Mr. Wiggles. Freelance. If we're lucky, he's double-booked Saturday." "And if we're not lucky?" "Then we've got a territorial dispute on our hands. I've handled territorial disputes." "You've buried problems before." "Nobody's proved anything." Bill picked up the crayon map and turned it over, hoping for a second page. There was no second page. "Fine. I'll wear the tutu." He pointed at her. "But I get the Pikachu." "Deal. Now eat your pancakes. We've got a birthday to ruin."