Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GV2WPRJ64E6625BXZBHG42

The blueprint spread across the kitchen table wasn't a bank vault or a casino floor—it was a bounce house layout, drawn in crayon, with stick-figure guards at the snack station. Bill adjusted his reading glasses and tapped a wobbly rectangle labeled CASTLE OF FUN. "This is where we hit 'em. Twelve-thirty, entertainment arrives, parents cluster at the cake table. Gift pile sits undefended." Molly squinted at the drawing. There were heart doodles in the margins and a sun wearing sunglasses. "Did you draw this yourself?" "I interviewed the birthday girl." "You interviewed—Bill. She's six." "And she talked. Kids have no operational security whatsoever." He slid a photograph across the table: a mountain of wrapped boxes beneath a banner reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY MADISON. In the background, a man in cargo shorts wept over a grill. "Loot's worth eleven hundred, minimum. American Girl doll. A Nintendo. Some kind of robotic hamster—apparently the crown jewel." Molly rubbed her temples. Fifteen years of professional theft. Museum walls scaled. Diamonds smuggled inside a trombone. This was somehow worse. "We've done museums. We did that yacht. Now we're hitting a pizza party." "Nobody expects a heist at a bounce house." "Because it's insane!" Bill ignored her and unrolled a second document—a party itinerary, decorated with glitter glue. He pinned it flat with a saltshaker, tenderly, like a general handling battle maps. "One o'clock, magician. Our window. Every eye in the yard goes to Doug the Amazing and his dove-related nonsense." "Mom posted it online. Complete with gate code." Molly stared at him. "The gate code. On social media." "Four-seven-one-one. She also listed her work schedule and the fact that their dog is friendly. Honestly, I almost feel guilty." "You should feel guilty! These are children!" "Children whose parents registered for a ninja turtle pool float." He pointed at the corner of the blueprint. "You'll go in as the balloon artist." "We're not actually making balloons, are we?" Bill paused a beat too long. "Bill." "I watched four tutorials." "That's not a skill! You can't tutorial your way into balloon art!" Molly stopped, eyes narrowing at the duffel bag beside his chair. A rubber glove protruded from the zipper, next to something brightly, ominously colored. "Wait. You're putting me in a rainbow wig?" "There's also a novelty bow tie." "Two years in a Turkish prison, and this is what I get." "One job. In and out in nine minutes. You twist the dog, I load the wagon, gone before cake." Molly exhaled and looked down at the blueprint—specifically, the little stick figures Bill had drawn weeping over an empty present table. "You drew the kids crying." "That's the after-action projection. I thought it was thorough." "It's horrifying. We're changing the plan—" "There's a sequel," Bill said. "Twin party. Two towns over. July." Molly stood and snatched the wig from the duffel bag. She jammed it onto her head with the resignation of a woman who'd once rappelled off the Eiffel Tower in heels. "Fine," she muttered. "But I'm keeping the hamster."