Run: 2026-09-23-01M36X8ASB0SDDXN1CN5A0CM3X

Bill flattened the architectural drawing against the hood of their van and held it down with three confiscated juice boxes while a summer breeze kept trying to ruin everything. The Sycamore Street Community Center glowed amber in the distance, its gymnasium windows advertising a six-year-old's birthday extravaganza with a banner that read "THOMAS GOES WILD" in letters cut from green construction paper and shaped like jungle leaves. Below the windows, a parking lot full of minivans sat crooked in their spaces like sleeping animals. A boombox thudded from inside the building, bass notes shaking the glass like the place had a heartbeat. "Okay," Bill said, tracing the blueprint with one finger. "Standard children's party layout. Balloon arch at the entrance. Presents table by the cake station. Balloon pit for crowd control." "There's no balloon pit at a children's birthday party, Bill." "You don't know that." "I absolutely do." Molly checked her watch and popped the cap off a permanent marker with her teeth. She drew a crude map directly on top of Bill's careful architectural drawing, her lines wobbly and aggressive. "Here's what I see. The presents go on a table next to the snack zone. Twenty-some gift bags and boxes, minimum. We walk in casual. Two guests nobody questions." "What kind of guests?" "Uncle types. Loose khakis, distracted smiles. Everyone assumes someone at a kids' party has an uncle they've never met." "What if Thomas's actual uncles are there?" "Then we're new uncles. Step-in-laws. Cousins from the branch of the family nobody talks about." Bill tapped the drawing where Molly had drawn a star labeled EXIT. "And the extraction?" "Same way we came in. We pick up three or four gift bags each and sling them over our shoulders. Nobody blinks. Adults at those parties are so desperate for five minutes of peace that a stranger walking out with merchandise is background noise." "That's dark, Molly." "It's called social engineering, and it works on panicked parents every single time." Bill studied the building one more time. Through the windows he could see silhouettes of children bouncing off padded walls while their parents huddled against the far wall like trench survivors. "What's our inside man situation?" "None. We go blind. But I called the bakery that made the cake and confirmed the party runs two hours with a magic show at four-fifteen. When the magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat, every child freezes. That's our window." "That's actually brilliant." "Don't sound so surprised." A wind picked up and rattled the chain-link fence around the parking lot. Bill folded the ruined blueprint and stuffed it back inside his jacket. "Alright. One more thing. What if some kid cries because we took their present?" Molly paused. The breeze died. Somewhere behind those glowing windows a balloon popped and twenty children shrieked in unison, followed by manic laughter that echoed off the parking lot. "That's the cost of doing business," she said. "You are genuinely terrifying." "Thank you. Now let's go steal from toddlers."