Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KRB8738MP1AESTDZW4RANN

Molly spread the flyer across the kitchen table like it was a blueprint for a bank vault. The paper was glitter glue and crayon, announcing Timmy’s Seventh Birthday Extravaganza at 3 PM sharp in the community center basement. Prize table in the corner. No parents allowed in the gym during cake. A hand-drawn dinosaur was smiling in the corner. Bill peered over her shoulder, holding a juice box like a flask. He was still in his janitor uniform from the morning shift, which Molly insisted was perfect cover. The vest was stained and the name tag read BILL. We’re not stealing a painting, we’re stealing plastic dinosaurs, Molly said. She tapped the drawing of a table piled with presents. Bill snorted. Those presents are the most honest loot I’ve ever seen. No alarms, no laser grid, just sugar-high children with sticky hands. The plan was simple and terrible. The community center had a back door for deliveries that never locked properly. Molly had cased it last Tuesday during Zumba class. The presents would sit unattended for twenty minutes while the kids played musical chairs. That was the window. I can get in through the service entrance at two fifty, Bill said. I’ll wear the vest. Mop bucket for a prop. Nobody questions the janitor. And I’ll be the mom, Molly said. She held up a borrowed floral dress and a wig that smelled faintly of mothballs. I bring a store-bought cupcake, cry a little about Timmy being my nephew, and sit near the gift table. You’re going to cry over a cupcake? Bill asked. I’ll cry over the presents leaving, she said. Then when the music starts, we make a run. Bill frowned. It’s a children’s party. They’ll notice two adults running with a mountain of boxes. They won’t, Molly said. They’re too busy trying not to sit on the chair. We grab, we go, we’re out the service door before the last verse of Baby Shark. She pointed to the floor plan she’d sketched on a napkin. In she drew a line from the door to the table, then a zigzag to the exit. She’d marked the location of the juice station and the ball pit, which was a trap. Ball pit is a death trap, Bill muttered. If we fall in, we’re done. We won’t fall in, Molly said. We walk like we own the place. Confident thieves, not suspicious thieves. Bill looked at the flyer again. The time was 3 PM. The parents were instructed to stay in the lobby for crafts. Perfect, he said. Distracted parents. Crying mom with a wig. Janitor with a mop. It’s flawless. Molly grinned, folding the flyer into her pocket. The only thing missing was a getaway car. We’re taking the bus, Bill said. With this many presents, we’ll look like a family moving apartments. Molly laughed. Fine. But if anyone asks, you’re my very tall, very tired nephew’s babysitter. Deal, Bill said. Meet you at the back door at two fifty. Try not to eat the cupcake before the heist. She promised she wouldn’t, then immediately took a bite.