Run: 2026-09-03-01M1M01BNZMPXBJ1VVRG42XS35

The van smelled like old fries and regret. Molly crouched behind the sliding door, binoculars pressed to her face. Across the street, a castle glowed with fairy lights. A banner above the porch read Happy Birthday, Timmy! Under it sat a mountain of presents. Inside, six-year-olds screamed like children hopped on cake. Molly’s eyes did the math before her conscience objected. That pile meant four months of rent, or one escape to a country without extradition. “This is a bad idea,” Bill said, crumbs falling from his chin. He sat on the van floor surrounded by empty chip bags and a duffel bag labeled Do Not Open Unless You Enjoy Consequences. Molly ignored him. Bill had called every job a bad idea since the petting zoo heist, which mostly involved a llama, a stroller, and a very loud goose. Molly lowered the binoculars. “Bad ideas pay the electric bill,” she said. “Look at that bike. That’s a mortgage payment with training wheels. Besides, Timmy’s mum bought out the entire toy aisle. It’s basically self-defense.” “We can’t steal from a birthday party,” Bill said. “It’s basically a felony with balloons.” He peered through the crack in the door as if hoping the presents would vanish and spare him the moral dilemma. Molly gave him the patient smile she reserved for bank managers and her cousin Derek. “We’re liberating presents from excess,” she said. “Timmy has two parties. He won’t notice. While you distract everyone, I slip through the kitchen, load the van, and we leave before the cake.” Bill opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. It was the same expression he had worn during the ice cream truck job, right before they escaped with forty dollars in quarters and a broken speaker. “How are we getting in?” he asked. “Through the front door? While a clown watches?” Molly reached into the duffel bag and pulled out a sequined cape, a plastic wand, and a hat that had seen better decades. “You’re the magician,” she announced. “The real one cancelled. I called as his assistant.” He would arrive, do a trick, and create chaos. Bill stared at the cape as if it had insulted him. “I don’t know any magic,” he said. “Last time I pulled a rabbit from a hat, I got a raccoon with very strong opinions about personal space.” Molly stuffed the cape into his hands. “Do the stapler trick,” she said. “Glitter covers everything.” While they screamed for cake, Molly would load the van and they would vanish like a bad investment. Bill’s sigh could have powered a small wind turbine. He draped the cape over his shoulders anyway, because he always did. “Fine,” he said. “But if a clown bites me, I’m billing you.” If he ended up covered in frosting, he would blame Molly in his memoir. Molly checked her watch, then the porch, then Bill’s cape for glitter, because priorities. “Noted,” she said, opening the van door. “Let’s go rob a childhood.”