Run: 2026-09-02-01M1GX885YYPER3EGM71KXZM4G

The blueprint was a napkin. Specifically, a napkin from the chip shop on Caldwell Road, with a gravy stain roughly where the bouncy castle would be, but Molly spread it across the van's dashboard with the solemnity of a general reviewing invasion plans. Beside her, Bill studied the wobbly rectangle marked TARGET and felt his stomach perform a slow, regretful roll. He'd pulled bank jobs, museum jobs, one long afternoon involving a llama, and never once had his nerves done this. There was something about robbing children that felt like punching downward. "Target's the rear garden," Molly said, tapping the stain. "Eleven hundred hours. That's when the magician goes on." "It's a kids' party, Molly." "Which is why nobody sees it coming." "Kids are witnesses, is what kids are. Hundreds of tiny witnesses with sticky hands and no concept of a false alibi." Molly ignored this, the way she ignored most things that were true. From the back seat she produced two aprons: one reading KISS THE COOK, the other WORLD'S OKAYEST DAD. Bill was handed the second and told not to ask questions. He asked questions anyway — about the exit, the take, and what happened if a child hugged him, which he insisted was documented caterer behavior. "The exit," Molly said, "is a wheelbarrow. We load the presents, wheel them out the front gate while the magician makes somebody disappear, and blend." "Blend with what? We're two adults stealing presents from a six-year-old." "We're catering staff, Bill. Nobody looks at catering staff." Bill looked across the street at number fourteen, already festooned — balloons on the mailbox, streamers on the hedge, a banner reading HAPPY 6TH TIMMY in lettering so cheerful it felt like a threat. Somewhere behind that hedge, according to the school-gate intelligence network, the presents were stacking up: remote-control cars, stuffed animals, and — prize of prizes — a bicycle from Timmy's grandmother. Not just any grandmother. Rosemary Wexler. Hotel Wexlers. A bicycle with gears, hydraulics, and a price tag Molly had once described, misty-eyed, as "organ money." "Suppose I go along with this," Bill said. "Suppose the plan works and we get out clean. What do we do with eleven presents shaped like dinosaurs?" "There are forty presents. I counted." "You counted?" "Callum counted. Callum is my rental child and a professional. He got in with a clipboard." Bill absorbed this. Somewhere in his chest, his conscience cleared its throat and was ignored. Outside, a balloon nudged the windscreen, tap-tap-tap, like a small ghost asking them to reconsider their lives. He looked down at the apron in his lap. WORLD'S OKAYEST DAD. It sat there like a prophecy. "Fine," he said. "But if a child hugs me, I'm out. That's my line." "There are no take-backs on a Wexler bike." He pulled the apron over his head. The van smelled of chips and destiny. Molly folded the napkin with the tenderness of a curator archiving a masterpiece, started the engine, and rolled them toward a suburban street where eleven six-year-olds were, at that very moment, unknowingly guarding the biggest score of their careers.