Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GWJESHR3KCY7HJZPX8NEZF

The van smelled like burnt coffee and older crimes. Molly had the blueprints taped to the ceiling, and Bill lay across two folding chairs, studying them the way a man studies a map of a place he never wants to visit. She pointed with a ballpoint pen. "Meadowbrook Park. Saturday. Eleven a.m." Below them glittered a hand-drawn diagram of a children's birthday party: a bounce house shaped like a dragon, a folding table labeled PRESENTS, and a suspicious orange circle marked PINATA — DO NOT ENGAGE. Bill propped himself up on one elbow. His knee popped, which was how his body RSVPed to things now. "Security?" "Two parents on gift duty. One of them has a clipboard, so treat her as armed with facts and resentment." "What about the teenager running the bounce house?" "Paid ten dollars an hour and one slice of cake. He'll fold under the lightest pressure. They all do." Bill chewed his pen. "Extraction?" "In through the ball pit, out past the juice station. We're gone before the candles." Molly was proud of the plan. She'd cased the park three times, once while pretending to jog and once while pretending to be somebody's aunt. But Bill had a way of finding the flaw in anything, usually the flaw that involved him getting hurt. "What about the dog," he said. "There's always a dog." "There's a golden retriever named Biscuit. Docile. Susceptible to cheese." "Every job has variables, Molly. This one has juice boxes." "That's what makes it beautiful. Now, phase two. The bounce house." Bill sat up so fast the folding chairs nearly went with him. "No." "You have to go in the bounce house." "I can't go in the bounce house, Molly. You've seen me at the trampoline park." "That was the climax of a different heist. This is a fresh start." He stared at the dragon on the ceiling. The dragon stared back, smug and inflatable. "Socks or bare feet?" he asked finally. "Socks. Bare feet is how they get your DNA." "They're children. What are they going to do, run a genealogy test between the piñata and the cake?" "You'd be surprised what those little monsters have access to." Molly could see him surrendering, the same slow collapse she'd witnessed before jewelry stores and one unfortunate aquarium job. Bill had a criminal's heart and a civilian's reflexes, and the war between them was long and undefeated. "Fine," he said. "What's my play?" "You fake an injury. You go down, you stay down. I take the gift table while everyone's distracted." "Fake an injury. In front of a dozen six-year-olds." "Commit to the craft, Bill. The best lie is the one you'd believe." He was quiet for a long moment, listening to the van tick. Somewhere out there, forty wrapped presents sat in a paper fortress, waiting for a professional. "And the dog?" he said at last. "Mozzarella. Behind the left ear." Bill sighed and reached for the balloon hat. "I want it noted that I hate this job." "Noted. Now practice your fall."