Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GW97ZPAB97MHRBSGQS384C

Molly unrolled the blueprints across the kitchen table, pinning the corners with bags of confiscated candy and a stapler stolen from a post office. Around her, the kitchen had been transformed: photos of the cul-de-sac on the fridge, red string connecting the bouncy castle to a prosecco-wielding mother, and one manila folder labeled, in ominous capitals, PIPER. "The target," she said, tapping the paper. "Piper Wexler's seventh birthday. Saturday, two p.m. Thirty guests. Bouncy castle in the rear garden." Bill squinted at the blueprints, which had been drawn in crayon. "This is a floor plan of a semi-detached house." "I drew it from memory. I was at the Easter egg hunt." "You were invited?" "I'm very charming." Bill leaned closer, careful not to disturb the load-bearing string. "What's the red circle in the lounge?" "Present table. Sixty-one gifts, give or take. Aunt Carol over-shops." Molly traced the entry route with a lacquered nail. "We come through the side gate during the magician. Nobody watches the doors during the magician." "And the parents?" "Distracted. There's a prosecco fountain." Bill frowned. He'd robbed banks with better security and worse prosecco. "Last job, the toddler saw you." "The toddler was blind." "She had eyes, Molly. She pointed at you and said 'lady.'" "Then she fell over. Toddlers fall over constantly. It proves nothing." Bill paced to the window, arms folded in the posture of a man who believed he was the sensible one. Outside, a neighbor's cat watched him with unwarranted suspicion. "And the bouncy castle?" he said. "That's our escape route." "I've accounted for it." Molly slid over a second sheet: an annotated diagram complete with wind speeds, weight limits, and a small warning drawn at its center. "We go around." "Revolutionary." "Don't sass me. I did recon." "You stood at the fence taking notes while a seven-year-old asked to show you her cartwheels." "And I said yes, because I'm not a monster, and it confirmed the layout." She jabbed the blueprints. "Focus. Phase three: exfiltration. We load presents into the van—" "A van? You're reversing a plain white van into a cul-de-sac full of mums?" "It's a party van." "It's a trap. Nobody brings a van to a party except people who take things away from parties." Molly paused, pen hovering. He had a point. Infuriating, but a point. "Bunting," she said at last. "What?" "We decorate it. Balloons, streamers. 'Party Van Entertainment Service.' Nobody questions a van with bunting." Bill stared at her. On the fridge, Piper's school photo beamed between the red string, gap-toothed and oblivious to the storm gathering around her loot. "That's the stupidest plan I've ever heard," he said. "Including the spoon tunnel." "The spoon tunnel was structurally sound." "We're still paying for the spoon tunnel." Molly squared the blueprints into a crisp stack, because details were what separated professionals from people who simply grabbed presents and sprinted — which, she conceded, remained the backup plan. "Saturday, two p.m.," she said. "Wear something cheerful." Bill sighed the sigh of a man who had once dreamed of diamonds. "I'm not dressing as a clown." "You're dressing as a clown a little bit."