Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H59EZ6DC7KD5HE118ZN7FM

The van sat across the street from the Henderson residence, where a inflatable dinosaur the size of a school bus wobbled in the driveway. Molly adjusted her binoculars while Bill chewed on a jerky stick with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb. "You're telling me," Bill said, "that the target is a six-year-old's birthday party." "Seven. Madison is turning seven, and she's getting a pony." "I don't care if she's getting a jet ski. We steal from banks, museums, and the occasional dodgy casino. We have a reputation." "We have three stars on Yelp and one of them just says 'returned my vase, but it was leaking.'" Bill peered through the window. Inside, a clown was already setting up, and the sight made his eye twitch. "That's not even a real clown. That's Uncle Randy in face paint. I can see his back tattoo." "Uncle Randy is our way in. He leaves his van unlocked because, and I quote, 'who steals from a kids' party?' Molly, we are who steals from a kids' party." Bill groaned and leaned his head against the steering wheel, honking the horn accidentally. A party guest looked over. They both ducked. "Okay," he said, sitting back up. "Play it out for me. What's the score here? Ribboned boxes of dolls and Play-Doh? What are we gonna do, resell a Frozen backpack at a pawn shop?" "The presents aren't the point, Bill. The point is what's hidden among the presents. Grandma Henderson wraps everything the same way. Everything. Including the mint-condition baseball card collection her dead husband left little Tyler, which the family is gifting today because they think he's too young to appreciate it." Bill paused mid-chew. "The '67 Mantle?" "The '67 Mantle." "Why does a seven-year-old have a '67 Mantle?" "Why does a seven-year-old have a pony, Bill? Rich people are chaotic." "That's fair. Okay." He pulled out a legal pad covered in elaborate plans involving grappling hooks and a trained pigeon named Kevin. "So the pigeon is out." "The pigeon was always out. Kevin retired." "Right, right." Bill tapped the pen against his teeth. "So what's my role?" "You're Uncle Randy's assistant." "I am not wearing face paint, Molly." "Face paint or pony costume. Those are the options." "There's a pony costume?" "There's a pony costume, and it needs a body, and the clown has already seen our faces from the van." Bill stared out at the inflatable dinosaur, which had begun slowly deflating in the rain, collapsing like his dignity. "If anyone from the crew hears about this—" "They'll hear you made four hundred grand in cash tips from parents who think pony costumes are adorable and tip accordingly. Bill, kids' parties are the only heist where the marks voluntarily put money in your pockets." There was a long silence. Bill reached into his bag and pulled out the pony head, its enormous glass eyes reflecting his broken soul. "If a child hugs me," he said grimly, "I'm keeping the tip." "That's the spirit. Now get in there, Buttercup." "That's my mother's name." "I know. Fitting."