Run: 2026-09-23-01M36VFWV3CDRCPQT8B9PC90FZ

The clipboard trembled in Molly's hands, and she wasn't sure if it was from nerves or because Bill kept breathing directly onto her neck. The blueprints of the Henderson residence spread across the floor of their rented van, a lurid pink circle marking the living room where the treasure would be gathered. "Okay," Molly said, tapping the page with a pen that had chew marks from a previous job. "Party starts at two. Confirmed. Sixty-four children, sixteen parents, one very aggressive labrador." Bill leaned over the map, his elbow pressing into her ribs. "What about the dog?" "What about him?" "I'm asking you what his deal is. Does he bark? Does he chase? Does he sleep?" Molly exhaled through her nose. "He barks, he chases, and according to my research, he sleeps for approximately forty-five minutes after eating a rawhide bone. We hit at three-fifteen. That gives us fifteen minutes of dog silence." Bill nodded slowly, his finger tracing a route through the kitchen. "And we come in through the back window?" "The back window. Which is unlocked every Saturday because Mrs. Henderson is, and I quote, 'too lazy to shut it after the cat uses it.' I confirmed this on her Instagram stories." "God bless social media." They studied the blueprint together, the van's engine idling softly in the parking lot of a strip mall. Through the windshield, a mother towed three children past a Dollar General, their balloons snagging on the automatic door. "How many presents?" Bill asked. "According to the gift registry, approximately thirty-one boxes. Mix of wrapped, bagged, and one oddly shaped item in a garbage bag that we should probably not question." "That's a lot of cardboard." "Bill, we're not stealing cardboard. We're stealing toys. Video games, dolls, action figures, one electric scooter." "Where do we put thirty-one boxes of children's presents in a van?" Molly reached behind the passenger seat and pulled back a heavy blanket, revealing a hollowed-out cavity beneath a false floor. "This is why I sleep at my van and not in an apartment." Bill stared at the compartment, then at Molly, then back at the compartment. "That's either brilliant or deeply concerning." "Both can be true. Now here's the real problem." She pointed to a cluster of windows along the west wall. "The parents' sitting area faces the living room through a glass partition. Every move we make will be visible to at least four adults and every child who doesn't happen to be cake-comatose." "So we need a distraction," Bill said. "No. We need seventeen distractions. One for each parent, one for each birthday chant, and one to keep the clown busy." Bill rubbed his temples. "There's a clown?" "There's a clown." "Are we going to rob him too?" "He doesn't have presents, Bill. Focus." Molly folded the blueprints and tucked them into her jacket. Outside, a teenager in a delivery uniform jogged past the van with a cardboard box balanced on his hip. Bill watched him go with sudden longing. "I still think this is insane," he muttered. "We've stolen diamonds, Bill. Diamonds for people who didn't earn them." "And now we're stealing from six-year-olds." "The six-year-olds will be too busy with the piñata. Trust the plan." She started the van and checked her watch. "Eleven hours." Bill buckled his seatbelt, leaned back, and closed his eyes. "I should have been an accountant." Molly smiled. "You would've hated it."