Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GW1ZGT06AT23DCSQG0CE5Y

The van smelled like cold pizza and regret. Molly unfolded a hand-drawn map of the Hendersons' backyard across the dashboard, pinning the corners with a rubber duck and a half-eaten bag of gummy worms. Beside her, Bill sipped cold coffee from a thermos labeled WORLD'S OKAYEST CRIMINAL. "Okay." She tapped the paper. "Security assessment." Bill leaned over and squinted. "It's a bounce house, Molly." "It's an obstacle. Twelve feet of tactical inflation between us and the gift table." She traced a route with one red-tipped nail, looping around a stick-figure dog labeled THREAT. "We breach during the cake. Nobody watches presents when there's sugar involved." Bill chewed this over, along with a gummy worm. "What about the clown?" "What clown?" "They hired one. Balloon animals. You said we needed a distraction." Molly raised her binoculars. Next door, a man in enormous shoes was twisting a balloon into something that resembled a defeated dachshund. She lowered them slowly, the way soldiers do in documentaries. "Fine. New plan. I take out the clown, steal the costume, and infiltrate as entertainment." "You can't take out a clown." "I took out a diamond courier in Prague." "Clowns are wiry. And they travel in packs—the magician, possibly a face painter." "Then you handle the face painter." Bill slumped against the door. "I always get the face painter. Last time I wore a butterfly for two days while we surveilled an ice cream truck." "It was a lovely butterfly." He crossed his arms. "What about the dog?" Molly's jaw tightened, and the whole van seemed to tighten with it. "The chihuahua is a non-issue." "It bit you." "One lucky shot. I was distracted by the piñata." Bill stared down at the crayon map, at the wobbly drawing of a fence, and felt something shrink inside his chest. "These are kids' presents, Moll. Legos. Gift cards. Maybe a scooter. Is this what we've become? We stole a Monet in 2019." Molly gazed through the windshield at the yard, where streamers drooped like flags of a nation that had given up. "The Monet fence is hot. The fence's fence is hot. And I've got rent due." She produced a crumpled invitation from her jacket. "Besides, Timmy Henderson's dad works at the electronics store. Employee discount. There could be a gaming console in that pile." Bill sat up. "A console?" "Sealed. Never opened." "That's... actually a decent score." "The best scores hide in humble places. Put on your party hat." "We are not wearing the party hats during the heist." "We wear the hats, Bill. We blend." He clipped the sparkly cone onto his head, because he knew, and she knew he knew. Through the window, eight seven-year-olds sang in a key that had never been heard by human ears. Molly checked her watch. "Two minutes to cake. Smile, wave, and whatever happens, don't make eye contact with the birthday boy. He asks questions." "Understood." "And Bill? We don't speak of the chihuahua." The van doors slid open. Somewhere in the suburbs, a party horn sounded the beginning of the end.