Run: 2026-09-23-01M36TKS0NHHY4B29XWMXAT5KP

Molly spread the blueprint across the hood of the van while rain tapped against the windshield. Bill squinted at the layout of a large suburban house and frowned. "So this is where the magic happens?" he said. "This is where the six-year-old's birthday party happens," Molly said. "And where approximately forty wrapped boxes of considerable commercial value are sitting in a back room, ripe for the taking." "The back room. The infamous back room." "Don't be dramatic." "I'm just clarifying. Because last time you said 'back room' you meant the trunk of someone's car." "That was a different venue. Focus." Molly tapped the blueprint with a red pen. "The presents are here, behind this door. The kids and parents are here in the garden, bouncing in some ludicrous inflatable castle." "The castle is key," Bill said. "The castle is a problem." "It's key because the squealing covers our entry. All that screaming. Nobody hears anything over forty kids landing on their faces in an inflatable monstrosity." Molly paused and looked at him. "You might be right." "I'm always right. What about the dog?" "There's a dog?" "Golden retriever. Named Biscuit. She's friendly but very vocal. She'll raise hell the moment we touch the back gate." "Can you befriend her?" "Can I befriend a golden retriever? Molly, I once convinced a German Shepherd to share its breakfast with me. A golden retriever will be licking my face within five seconds." "And then you pick the lock while she's occupied." "While she's occupied licking my face. That's the plan? My face is the distraction?" "Your face is generally a distraction. I thought we agreed on this." She drew a line to the back door and circled it twice. "We go over the fence at three-fifteen. The cake comes out at three-thirty. That's our window. Everyone gathers around, the candles come out, some child with a hero complex tries to blow them all out and fails, and while this emotional drama unfolds, we grab the boxes." "What about wrapping paper? Unwrapping slows us down." "We don't unwrap. We take the whole lot. The wrapping stays on. These are gifts, not stolen goods, until someone notices. By then we're already on the motorway." "You want me to pile forty presents into the van. How long does that take?" "Two minutes if we're efficient. Three if the boxes are awkward. Four if you drop one and have a small existential crisis like you did at the Henderson job." "I did not have an existential crisis." "You sat on the sidewalk and said, and I quote, 'What is the point of anything?'" "I was philosophical. There's a difference." "The difference is timing, Bill. Save your philosophy for after we're loaded." She folded the blueprint and slid it under her arm. "Any other questions?" "Just one. Do we keep any of the presents? Because I saw a brand-new bicycle in the photos. Red. Shiny. I'm a size 40." "We are not keeping the children's bicycle." "Even the red one?" "Even the red one. We sell the haul, we split the take, and we disappear. That's the deal." Bill sighed and opened the van door. "Fine. But if Biscuit bites me, I get the bicycle."