Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PPWNB7JWP7TVKZMR1JHCN

Molly crouched behind a plastic flamingo, binoculars pressed to her face, though the birthday banner was visible from three blocks away. Beside her, Bill studied a laminated map of the community center with the intensity of a general planning D-Day. "Twenty-seven presents," Molly whispered. "I counted twice." The plan was elegant in its stupidity. They would enter through the ventilation shaft—Bill had watched four tutorials about duct systems—disguised as the hired clown and his assistant. The real clown had accepted a coupon book and vague threats concerning balloon animals. Bill unrolled the blueprints, which were actually a menu from a Chinese restaurant with arrows drawn in crayon. He'd labeled the present table with a skull and crossbones, and circled the cake table three times for reasons Molly had stopped asking about. "The piñata is the wildcard," he muttered, tapping a drawing of what might have been a donkey or a small explosion. Molly adjusted her rainbow wig. Somewhere inside, a child was screaming about cake with the pitch of a fire alarm. She checked her watch. In ten minutes, they'd strike during the magic show, when every eye would be on a man pulling rabbits from hats, and nobody would notice two thieves stuffing Barbies into a duffel bag.