Run: 2026-09-23-01M36TWQW5GBFWTQ71104FGR9A

"Alright, listen carefully," Molly whispered, crouching behind the hedge outside Mrs. Henderson's house. "The party starts at three. We move in at four." Bill checked his watch. "Why four?" "Because by four, every single present will be unwrapped and dumped in that big white box by the door. They always do it early. Kids lose interest in wrapping paper after ten minutes." "That's dark." "It's efficient. Big difference." Bill adjusted his tiny fake mustache for the ninth time. "And the disguise?" "Badge says 'Party Photographer.' Smile naturally. Don't make eye contact with any child over four." "Why four?" "Because kids that age start asking questions. 'Mister, why are you wearing a giant sleeping bag?' you don't want that kind of conversation." Bill nodded slowly. "Right. And the haul?" "Seventeen kids. Average four gifts each. We're looking at sixty-eight presents minimum. Some of those dads go all out when they've had a drink." "Sixty-eight," Bill repeated, eyes gleaming. "We'd need a vehicle." "I thought about that. I borrowed your cousin's panel van." "My cousin doesn't have a panel van." "He does now. I bought it off him this morning." "You what? That thing runs on duct tape and prayer!" "It'll get us to the warehouse. After that, we dump it and walk." Bill frowned. "The warehouse?" "The industrial park off Route 9. We sort everything there, resell, split fifty-fifty." "Sixty-forty. I'm carrying the sleeping bag." "You're carrying your own mustache, not a sleeping bag." "Fine. Fifty-fifty. But I want first pick of anything Nerf-related." Molly rolled her eyes. "Deal. Now, what's your exit strategy?" Bill paused. "I thought you had one." "I always have one. You're asking it anyway so I can feel good about having one." "Right. Right. And that is?" "The fire alarm." "In a children's party?" "Mrs. Henderson installed those old pull-cord alarms last year. My brother does her plumbing. He told me they're stuck." "So we pull the alarm, everyone panics, we grab the box and go." "Merry Christmas, Bill. Merry personal Christmas." Bill grinned under his ridiculous mustache. "What about the cake?" "What about it?" "I noticed on the flyer it said buttercream. Homemade. From Henderson herself." "We're stealing children's presents, Bill. Not Henderson's cake." "I'm just saying. Priorities." "Your priorities are broken." "It's been a long year, Molly." She studied him for a moment, then sighed. "Fine. You get the cake. One rule — don't cut it with the same knife I'm using to open boxes." "Deal." Bill extended his hand, but Molly was already moving toward the back door, disappearing through the unlocked utility entrance with the quiet grace of someone who had practiced this exact move in her garage forty times. Bill watched her go, patted his mustache one final time, and whispered to himself, "Professional."