Run: 2026-09-02-01M1H5G19JB42TFK7CDS3M05YV

Molly laid the blueprint across the folding table and smoothed it flat with her palm, the way she'd seen generals do in movies, except generals probably never planned assaults on a six-year-old's birthday party. "Okay, walk me through it again," Bill said, chewing the end of his pencil. "The Hendersons. Saturday. Two o'clock. Bounce house out front, clown in the kitchen, presents piled in the living room under a sign that says, and I quote, 'Do Not Open Until Birthday Boy Says So.'" "That sign's basically an invitation." "That's what I said." Bill leaned over the blueprint, squinting. "And what's our cover?" "Parents. We're somebody's aunt and uncle. Nobody questions an aunt and uncle. You show up, you eat cake, nobody remembers your face." "I hate cake." "You'll love cake. Cake is the whole alibi. You want to steal presents, first you have to be a person who eats cake." Bill dropped the pencil and rubbed his eyes. "I got into this business to crack vaults, Molly. Diamond vaults. Bank vaults. I did eighteen months planning the Fenwick job. Eighteen months. And now we're casing a party where the security is a clown named Mr. Wiggles." "Mr. Wiggles is not to be underestimated. He's got a balloon animal station right by the presents. That's a lookout post. That's trained surveillance with a squirting flower." "It's a clown." "It's a clown with a line of sight to forty gift bags, Bill. We go in the front door, you're on cake duty, I drift toward the present table, and we're done in ninety seconds." "Ninety seconds." Bill pulled a chair out and sat down heavily, the chair groaning like it had opinions. "And the getaway?" "Minivan. Parked at the curb with the hazards on. Nothing's more invisible at a children's party than a minivan." "That's actually genius." "I know." "And we're selling the presents where? The fence for kids' toys? Who is that? Does that person exist?" Molly flipped the blueprint over to reveal a second sheet, hand-drawn, with arrows. "Garage sales. Every weekend, different neighborhood. We sell them off one pony at a time." Bill stared at the paper for a long moment. "One pony at a time." "That's the phrase I used, yes." "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and I once watched you try to bribing a guard with a hoagie." "The hoagie worked." "The hoagie did not work, he arrested you." "He took a bite first. That's not nothing." Bill stood up, walked to the window, looked out at the quiet suburban street, then turned back. "Fine. Fine. But if I'm eating cake, I'm eating the good cake. The dense kind. With the frosting roses." "Deal." "And if Mr. Wiggles makes me, I'm allowed to panic." "Nobody makes you, Bill. You're going to be an uncle eating cake. You're going to be invisible. You're going to be the most forgettable man in that living room." Bill nodded slowly, then frowned. "Wait. What presents are we stealing, exactly? It's a six-year-old. It's going to be Lego and gift cards." Molly smiled and tapped the blueprint. "Gift cards, Bill. Forty of them." Bill sat back down. "I love this job."