Run: 2026-09-23-01M36VYYWQZAMARREJ41DRGPF6

Bill leaned against the car door, adjusting his fake mustache in the side mirror. Molly sat in the passenger seat, spreading a napkin across her lap and studying a hand-drawn floor plan of the Henderson residence. "Okay, so what are we dealing with here?" Molly asked, tapping the sketch with a ballpoint pen. "Forty-seven children, five parents, and one deranged golden retriever named Biscuit," Bill said. "Fifty presents?" "Sixty-three, actually. They double-booked two birthdays." "Who does that?" Molly exclaimed. "The Hendersons. They're animals," Bill said, shaking his head. "So what's the entry point?" "Through the bathroom window on the north side. It's six inches off the ground." "That's not a window, Bill. That's a crawlspace." "It's a window, Molly. I saw it." "You saw a brick gap." Bill pulled out a pair of binoculars. "I'll show you. There's a ledge." Molly snorted. "Fine. You crawl through the bathroom, I'll pull the presents out the living room back door." "And the dog?" "What about the dog?" "Biscuit. She eats strangers and socks," Bill said. "Why does she eat socks?" "I don't know, but the warning was on the invitation." Molly paused. "We have an invitation?" "My niece mailed me one. I assumed it was for reconnaissance." "That's either brilliant or pathetic." "It's both, Molly. That's my brand." Bill straightened his collar. "I've got a plan for Biscuit." "Go on." "I brought pork chops." "Pork chops?" "Pork chops," Bill repeated confidently. "She eats socks, not meat." Bill stared at her. "Everyone eats meat, Molly. Even dogs. Especially dogs." "That's not the point—" "The point is she'll be busy chewing while we load up the trunk." Bill patted the glove compartment. "I also brought those little rubber gloves." "Fingerless ones?" "No. Full coverage. The forensic-resistant kind." "We're stealing from six-year-olds, Bill. Nobody's running DNA tests." "You don't know that. One of these kids might grow up to be a detective." "That's actually a fair point," Molly conceded, crossing out a section of her plan. "Okay. Here's what we do. You distract the parents with a gift of your own." "I brought a gift?" "You brought pork chops, didn't you? Put one on a platter and act like you're a neighbor." "No neighbor is bringing uncooked pork chops to a party." "Fine. You bring a check. It's been bounced so many times they won't dare cash it, and it gives us a fifteen-minute window." Bill nodded slowly. "Fifteen minutes is tight." "It's forty-seven children, Bill. They're going to be tearing open wrapping paper like little feral raccoons. The parents will be overwhelmed." "So we grab and run?" "We grab, we bag, we bolt." "Grab, bag, bolt," Bill repeated, grinning. "Grab, bag, bolt." They sat in silence for a moment, staring at the quiet suburban street where balloons bobbed lazily above a mailbox. A children's cheer erupted faintly through the walls. "That sounds like the cake being served," Molly whispered. "Then we've got about four minutes until they start opening gifts." Bill cracked his knuckles and pushed open the car door. "Grab, bag, bolt," he said one more time, slipping a pair of rubber gloves over his hands. "Grab, bag, bolt," Molly echoed, and together they crossed the lawn.