Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GTV3PAGFFXK7VT017ABDEF

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the hood of the van, pinning the corners down with four garden gnomes she'd stolen on principle. Down the block, a mechanical pony whinnied on a loop, taunting them. "Target's the Wilson kid's birthday," she said. "Saturday. Backyard of 42 Maple." Bill squinted at the diagram. "Security?" "Two parents, one bouncy castle, and a clown." He went pale, reaching for his stress balloon. "Nobody said clown. I have a condition." "It's a condition of the job." "A phobia. Clown-related. Formative trauma." "You're fifty-three." He traced the fence line with a trembling finger. "What's the haul?" "Fifteen presents, minimum. Kid's popular. Plus a piñata stuffed with twenties." "What is this family, cartel?" Molly nodded like this explained everything. "Pediatric dentists. Here's the play. You're the distraction." "I do safecracking. I do roofs. Not birthday clowns." "You juggle, the clown broods, I vacuum the gift table." "I've never juggled in my life." She patted his cheek like a boxing coach, then pressed three rubber duckies into his hands. "It's a children's party. Nobody expects technique." He weighed a duck. It squeaked. "Fine. But if he honks at me, I'm gone." Somewhere beyond the hedge, the bouncy castle inflated slowly, like a fat orange promise.