Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GWH8NRAS9CFXETH46JKQ84

Molly had pressed the blueprint against the van's dashboard with the gravity of a general reviewing plans for Normandy. It was, technically, a crayon drawing of the Hendersons' backyard, but the compass rose pointed north, mostly. "Okay," she said. "We go in at fourteen hundred hours." "It's a birthday party. You can just say two." "Two. The gate's guarded." "Guarded by what?" "A golden retriever named Biscuit." Bill leaned back. Biscuit, Molly explained, had a documented history of licking intruders into unconsciousness. The Federmeyer boy had been found three blocks away, dehydrated, covered in dog hair, with no memory of the sprinkler. Bill absorbed this like intelligence on a rival cartel. Eleven years in the game — jewelry stores, art galleries, one disastrous weekend at a casino — and nothing made his hands sweat like a suburban backyard. Suburbs had eyes. Suburbs had ring cameras. Suburbs had grandmothers. "So we go over the fence," he said. "What's the interior situation?" "Tables here and here. Cake on the north lawn. Presents pile up beside the garage, under the grandmother's eye." "Grandmothers are a soft target." Molly's voice dropped, the way sailors once spoke of storms. "Not this one. Doris plays competitive bingo. She took out a mailman with a lawn dart in 2009." They observed a moment of silence for the mailman. "I could do the clown thing," Bill offered. "You're never doing the clown thing again. Last time you made a six-year-old cry and then you cried." "The kid asked why the dove didn't need air in the balloon. It got philosophical. I wasn't prepared." Molly traced a purple blob on the map labeled THE ALARM. "The piñata. Every kid within earshot comes running when it breaks. I break it, they descend like seagulls, Doris turns to watch, and you hit the table. Sixty seconds. In and out." Bill had to admit it was elegant. Men had gone to prison for less. Then his eyes drifted east, to the enormous blue rectangle squatting over the lawn like an inflatable fortress, and his stomach dropped. He had seen footage of what those things did to grown men. "The bouncy castle," he said. "It's directly in my exit path." "So bounce through it." "You don't just bounce through a bouncy castle, Molly. There are rules. There's an unspoken code." "You're afraid of a bouncy castle." "I'm respectful of a bouncy castle." He straightened his collar, salvaging what dignity remained. "Ethical question, though. Do we take all the presents? The kid's turning seven. There's a line." "We're not animals. We leave her one present. The good one." "Which one's the good one?" "Whichever has the most tape. Grandmothers telegraph their best work. Check the bow." The bubble machine roared to life. Somewhere beyond the fence, seven-year-olds were singing happy birthday, off-key and hungry. Bill checked his watch with hands that were already shaking. "Two o'clock," Molly said, pulling on sunglasses and collecting a gift bag labeled "From Aunt Carol." "Grab the presents. Avoid Doris. And whatever happens in that bouncy castle, don't make eye contact with the clown." Bill went pale. "There's a clown now?"