Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PP8JT747VNKC3VJB5S3BJ

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the dashboard of the van, pinning one corner under a thermos and the other under Bill's sandwich. "That's not a blueprint," Bill said. "That's a birthday invitation. It has a unicorn on it." "The unicorn is a landmark. Focus." Molly tapped the glittery card. "Saturday, two o'clock, 14 Maple Drive. Tyler is turning seven. Forty guests confirmed. That's forty presents, Bill. Minimum." Bill chewed thoughtfully, which for Bill was a visible, strenuous process. "What if some kids bring cards instead?" "Then we steal the cards." "What if the cards just say 'Happy birthday, love Grandma'?" "Then we'll have Grandma's love, which is more than you've got now." The van was parked two houses down, painted with the words BALLOON ANIMALS BY BARTHOLOMEW. Molly had chosen the disguise because nobody ever questioned a clown. Bill had chosen the name Bartholomew because it was, in his words, "extremely trustworthy." "Here's the plan," Molly said. "You go in as the entertainment. While the kids are mesmerized by your balloon animals, I slip into the gift room, load everything into laundry bags, and we're gone before the cake." Bill raised his hand. "We're in a van. You don't have to raise your hand." "I can't make balloon animals." Molly stared at him. "You told me you could make balloon animals." "I said I could make a balloon snake." "What's a balloon snake?" "It's a balloon, Molly. You blow it up and you believe." Molly closed her eyes, the way she did whenever she remembered she'd been kicked out of three separate crime syndicates for her choice of partners. When she opened them, Bill was holding up a limp pink tube with the pride of a new father. "His name is Gerald," Bill said. "Fine. Gerald is the distraction. Tell them Gerald is shy." "Seven-year-olds are ruthless. They'll eat me alive." "They're children." "My nephew's party had a bouncy castle. Two kids went in. One came out wearing the other one's shoes." Molly consulted her notes, written in crayon because the van's previous owner had stolen all the pens. The van's previous owner was also Molly. "Other complications. Piñata at three." "So?" "So forty children with a stick. Stay clear of the backyard. And the mother, Linda, runs the neighborhood watch Facebook group. Four thousand members." Bill went pale. "The Maple Drive Moms." "You know them?" "They found my bike in a day. I didn't even report it stolen. I stole it." Molly folded the invitation and tucked it into her jacket. "In and out, Bill. Nobody gets hurt. Nobody gets glitter on them." "Somebody always gets glitter on them." She sighed, because he was right, and he was so rarely right that it felt like an omen. Down the street, a minivan pulled up and a small boy climbed out, dragging a present the size of a refrigerator. Bill whispered, "Molly. I think it's a bike." "Start the van, Bartholomew."