Run: 2026-09-23-01M36V69XGBSMQ05SP2XWVA0ST

Molly spread the blueprint across the kitchen table like a general planning a war, except the war in question was against seven-year-olds and the battlefield was a bouncy castle shaped like SpongeBob SquarePants. Bill leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the drawing with the intensity of a man defusing a bomb, which was ironic given that the last bomb he'd defused was actually just a malfunctioning potato cannon at a county fair. "Right," Molly said, tapping a grease pencil against the paper. "The presents table sits here, stage left of the cake station. That's our primary target. Everything from Beanie Boos to LEGO Hogwarts goes in the bags." "And the birthday boy's haul? That's what, twelve, fifteen gifts?" Bill asked. "Seventeen. The mother's an overachiever. She rented a magician and a pony." Bill whistled low. "A pony. That's dangerous, Mols. Ponies are unpredictable. Remember what happened in Leicester?" "We do not talk about Leicester." Molly carried on, unfazed. She was a professional. She had stolen an entire carousel from a county fair in September and the only mark left was a hoofprint on her left boot. The point was, ponies could be managed. It was the children who concerned her. Children were shifty, observant, and had no respect for the concept of physical boundaries. One had once lifted her wallet at a christening and she still hadn't forgiven the little bastard. "The party starts at three," she continued. "We arrive at three-forty-five. By then the sugar rush has peaked and the adults have retreated to the kitchen with wine. Half the kids will be inside the bouncy castle. That's our window." "What's our cover?" "We're the entertainment. You're the magician's assistant. I'm the balloon artist." Bill stared at her. "I can't make balloon animals." "You don't have to make them. You have to hand them out. I've got a duffel full of pre-made poodles and swords. The key is confidence. If a child asks for a giraffe, you tell them giraffes are retired." "Retired from what?" "From balloon artistry, Bill. Keep up." Bill ran a hand across his face and sighed with the bone-deep weariness of a man who had once planned to rob a bank and ended up robbing a Chuck E. Cheese by mistake. The shame still kept him up at night. Those tickets. Those godforsaken tickets. He'd hauled two hundred pounds of paper redemption vouchers out through a fire exit while a animatronic bear sang behind him. "Fine. Balloon artist. And the presents?" "I sweep them into the bags during "Happy Birthday." Everybody faces the cake. Nobody watches the table. Two bags, out the back door, into the van." "Van's parked where?" "Corner of Maple and the alley. Engine running. Terry's driving." Bill nodded slowly. Then he paused. "What if the pony blocks the back door?" Molly set down her pencil and gave him a look that could curdle milk at forty paces. "Then you push the pony." "And if it kicks me?" "Then you take the kick like a man and get in the van." Bill opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. He'd learned that arguing with Molly was like wrestling a tornado in a phone booth—loud, pointless, and you always ended up flat on your face in someone's flowerbed. He picked up one of the duffel bags instead and practiced handing a latex poodle to the toaster with a smile that he hoped screamed "entertaining children's performer" rather than "grown man who steals from second-graders." "Mols, this is going to end in tears." "Only if we get caught. That's why we won't." She capped the marker, folded the blueprint with surgical precision, and slid it inside her jacket. "Same time tomorrow. Wear the bow tie. It adds credibility." Bill watched her leave through the kitchen door and stood alone with the toaster and the pre-made balloon animals, wondering not for the first time how he had ended up in a line of work where the most dangerous variable was a Shetland pony named Sergeant Sprinkles.