Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H5C63VTJ9KS3ZTQCHGBF24

The van sat across the street from the community center, its interior lit only by the glow of a cupcake-shaped nightlight Molly had stolen from a CVS. "I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Bill said. "Talk you into it? You saw the flyer. Seventy kids, seventy presents. That's a Jewish Maharaja's level of loot." "It's a six-year-old's birthday party, Molly." "A six-year-old with a bouncy castle, Bill. Do you know what the gift threshold is when there's a bouncy castle? These parents are compensating. We're talking bikes. Tablets. Maybe a pony, if we're lucky." "Stealing a pony was not in the plan." "The plan is fluid." Bill rubbed his face with both hands. "Okay. Walk me through it again. Slowly." "I'm Aunt Molly, visiting from Boca. You're my husband, Uncle Bill. We love children. We're here for little Tyler's special day." "Tyler? I thought the kid's name was Brandon." "Brandon Tyler Whitsby the Third. Kid's got more names than a law firm. That's how rich his family is." "And the security?" "One teenager in a homemade Spider-Man suit. His name is Derek. He's sixteen. He texted through the entire party last year. I checked the Instagram." "You checked the—" "Recon, Bill. It's called recon." Bill leaned his forehead against the steering wheel. "What's the exit strategy?" "Ugh, you and your exit strategies. This is why your last three jobs failed." "My last three jobs failed because of you. The museum job. The casino job. The ice cream truck." "The ice cream truck was a goldmine and you know it." "We were chased by a golden retriever for six blocks." "A determined retriever. That dog had training." "Molly. Focus. Exit strategy." She sighed and pulled out a crayon-drawn map of the community center. "Fine. Presents pile up at the gift table by two o'clock. Cake happens at two-thirty, because rich people cut cake late to seem fancy. At two-fifteen, you trip the fire alarm." "Trip it how?" "You're a clumsy uncle. You bump into the pull station. With your elbow. Authentically." "Sixteen-year-old Derek won't notice the guy in the Hawaiian shirt deliberately elbowing a fire alarm?" "Derek won't care if the building is actively on fire. Derek has a crush on Tyler's cousin Savannah. I've seen the TikToks. Derek, buddy, you brought this on yourself." "The sprinklers will go off, Molly. The presents will get soaked." "Not if I'm already wheeling them out in the recycling bin I borrowed from behind the center. Recycling, Bill. We're basically environmentalists." "That's it? That's the plan? You trip a fire alarm, I steal from children, and you wheel their presents away in a garbage bin?" "Recycling bin. And technically, we both steal from children. I'm not doing this alone, Bill. This is a partnership." Bill stared out the window at the balloons straining against the lamppost. "What happens when the kids come outside crying because their presents are gone?" Molly was quiet for exactly three seconds. "We leave one present." "One?" "For Brandon Tyler. Rich kids expect at least one gift. It maintains the illusion. It's the perfect crime." "You're a monster." "I'm a professional. Now put on your Hawaiian shirt. Uncle Bill loves children." Bill groaned and pulled the shirt over his head. "The things I do for a fraction of a pony." "The pony is speculative." "Then what are we doing this for?" Molly grinned and cracked her knuckles. "The look on Derek's face."