Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GX189AXAAXEVNC71WBB26N

The blueprint crackled as Molly spread it across the kitchen table — technically not a blueprint, but a crayon drawing of the Hendersons' backyard, complete with a stick-figure trampoline and a dog labeled "SPRINKLES" in aggressive red. She weighted the corners with a saltshaker and a jar of pickles, which was as official as their operation ever got. "The perimeter," she announced. "Six-foot privacy fence, one gate, one dog." Bill leaned in, toothpick bobbing. "Sprinkles sounds friendly." "Sprinkles has three outstanding attack complaints and wears a vest. He's essentially a furry lawsuit." Bill nodded slowly, the way he did when a plan started feeling expensive. "So we go over the fence during the clown. Everyone watches the clown." "Nobody watches the clown, Bill. The clown is a tragedy in makeup. We go in during the piñata." Bill straightened as if she'd insulted his mother. "You never go during the piñata. The piñata is chaos. Chaos is cover." "Chaos is eleven seven-year-olds swinging a bat with zero spatial awareness. Kevin took out a folding table last year, and Kevin is six." Molly dragged her finger across the map to the patio, where she'd drawn a small rectangle and written PRESENTS in handwriting that meant business. "The loot stacks beside the cake. Mr. Henderson will be at the grill, rendering him emotionally unavailable. Dana will be filming everything for Instagram, so her eyes are technically decorative." "And the take?" "One retired Lego set. The big one. Three hundred on eBay." She paused for effect. "Each. There are two." Bill sat down the way men do when they realize they're about to commit a crime for plastic bricks. He studied the route, fence to card table and back, moving his toothpick like a tiny surveyor's tool. "Window's tight. Cake, presents, goodie bags — we've got four minutes, maybe." "Three. The birthday girl reads every card aloud. She did last year. She read them like a hostage." "Exit strategy?" "Same as entry, then through the hydrangeas to the getaway vehicle." Molly tilted her head toward the window, where a rusted minivan idled in the driveway wearing a stick-figure family decal: two adults, zero children, deliberately. It was, in her professional opinion, the most invisible car in America. "Engine running?" "It's a minivan, Bill. The engine runs out of shame. No one has ever once looked at it." Bill pulled the toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at her like a dueling pistol. "One flaw. Parents. Someone always knows someone. Brenda from book club. There's always a volunteer hovering by the juice boxes." Molly smiled the smile she saved for vending machines and unattended delivery trucks. "That's the beautiful part. I RSVP'd three weeks ago. As far as the Hendersons know, I'm 'Aunt Mo from out of town.'" Bill stared at her across the crayon map of their future. "You have an aunt name?" "I have an entire aunt persona. The casserole has been thawing since Tuesday." Outside, the minivan wheezed in agreement.