Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H59D8ZGBB40V4DJV4GSPVR

The party planner's layout blueprint glowed on the laptop screen, spread across the cramped booth of a diner that had stopped asking questions about late-night customers years ago. Molly traced her finger around a circle labeled "GIFT TABLE — UNATTENDED 2:15–2:40 PM." "This is it, Bill. The big one. Three hundred presents, minimum." Bill stared at the blueprint like it had personally insulted him. "It's a six-year-old's birthday party, Molly." "A rich six-year-old's birthday party. Look at the venue. Château event hall. Pony rides. A petting zoo, Bill. They hired a professional balloon artist. Do you know what a professional balloon artist costs? These people are swimming in money and worse taste." "The ponies can't be that bad." "The ponies are a distraction. The real target is the gift table by the west entrance. According to this, the presents get wheeled into a back room during the magic show. Twenty-five minutes, completely unguarded, because every parent in that building will be watching a nineteen-year-old saw a man in half." Bill rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "We're thieves, Molly. We've done banks. Armored trucks. One very regrettable museum job in Prague. And now you want us to rob a child." "Not rob a child. Rob the adults who buy children's presents. There's a difference, and it's an important one, morally speaking." "It's the same difference." "Moral distinctions matter, Bill." She tapped the blueprint again. "Also, the kid has two ponies. I had zero ponies growing up. This is basically a public service." Bill leaned back and studied her, the way he always did when he was deciding whether to go along with something that would ruin his life. It took him about four seconds. "What's the cover story?" Molly grinned and pulled two uniforms out of the duffel bag under the table. The fabric was yellow, orange, and shaped like a nightmare. "Oh no." "Oh yes. We're the entertainment. Jolly & Wobbles, professional party performers." "I am not being Wobbles." "You're being Wobbles." "I have a gun, Molly. A gun and a bad knee. Nothing about me is Wobbles-compatible." "Your knee is literally the most Wobbles thing about you. Lean into it. It's method acting." Bill held up the costume at arm's length, as if it might bite. The oversized bow tie flopped forlornly against his wrist. "If anyone asks, I do balloon animals. That's my boundary. I will make balloon animals and I will not enjoy it." "You'll love it. Kids adore a grumpy man making tiny balloon dachshunds. It's called contrast comedy." "And while I'm out there humiliating myself, you're in the back room with three hundred presents." "Wheeled out in a laundry cart, into the van, and we're gone before the birthday cake comes out. Twenty-five minutes. Nobody cries." "Someone always cries at a party, Molly." "Then it'll be you, and it won't be our fault." Bill folded the costume with the resigned precision of a man who had survived Prague and would survive this too, probably. "Balloon dachshunds," he muttered. "I was trained by a safe-cracker in Warsaw." "And now you'll be trained by a six-year-old named Tyler. Life comes for us all, Bill."