Run: 2026-09-23-01M37NYRQM08TKGJVTWN7P0E78

The van smelled like cold pizza and regret. Molly spread a glitter-covered invitation across the dashboard, tapping it with one cracked nail. "Okay, so little Brayden is turning seven. Bouncy castle out back, magician at two, cake at two-thirty. That's our window." Bill squinted at the invitation. "It says the party starts at one. That gives us, what, ninety minutes?" "Bill, sweetie, we're not stealing the presents DURING the party. We're stealing them during the magician. Kids hate magicians. Everyone's watching the sad man with the dove. Nobody watches the gift table." "Kids love magicians." "Kids love CLOWNS, Bill. Magicians are just clowns that gave up." Bill shifted his weight, and the van rocked like a boat. "Fine. So what's the getup? Last time you made me wear that elf costume in July, and I still have heat rash in places I don't discuss." "You're going as Brayden's grandpa." "I'm forty-three." "Kids think anyone with gray hair and a cardigan is somebody's grandpa. I got you a cardigan. It's mustard. Very grandpa-core." "Where'd you get a mustard cardigan?" "Don't ask questions you don't want answered, Bill." Molly pulled out a hand-drawn map of the house. It was on a napkin. Half of it was a coffee stain that she'd labeled "POOL (PROBABLY)." "There's the gift table. Living room, right by the window. I'll distract the mom by complimenting the veggie platter for forty-five minutes." "Forty-five minutes of complimenting vegetables?" "Moms live for that, Bill. 'Ooh, is this ranch homemade?' She'll talk until the candles are blown out. Meanwhile, you load the presents into the wagon." "What wagon?" "The wagon, Bill. Every kids' party has one of those little red wagons. We're borrowing theirs. It's called efficiency." "That's not efficiency, that's called using a child's toy to commit a crime." "Crime is such a strong word. It's an aggressive redistribution of wrapping paper." Bill rubbed his temples. "What about the presents that are just, like, socks? Kids get socks. We don't want socks." "Obviously we do triage. Socks stay. Underwear stays. Anything that rattles, we take." "What if it rattles because it's maracas?" "Then Brayden's parents owe us a maraca, Bill. Move on." He stared at the napkin map. "And how do we get out? Front yard is full of parents doing that thing where they stand in a circle holding solo cups and talking about mortgages." "Back fence. There's a gap behind the hydrangeas. I checked it out yesterday. I posed as a lawn inspector." "Nobody inspects lawns, Molly." "That's why nobody questions a lawn inspector, Bill. That's basic heist theory." Bill sighed the sigh of a man who had been through this before, possibly at a bat mitzvah. "Fine. Mustard cardigan. Wagon. Hydrangeas. But if a single child hugs me and calls me Grandpa, I'm keeping the socks." "Deal. Now practice your grandpa walk." "Grandpas don't have a walk." "Bill. Everything with a cardigan has a walk." He shuffled experimentally. Molly winced. "Less 'dying,' more 'complaining about the weather.'" He shuffled again, muttering about humidity. Molly nodded slowly, one tear in her eye. "That," she said, "is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."