Run: 2026-09-24-01M39W51B5YT8413N2MYJJ4487

Molly pressed her face against the frosted window of the local community center, watching balloons drift past like fat, colorful surveillance drones. Inside, a banner screamed HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY TIMMY in letters appliquéd by someone with a grudge. "Twenty presents, minimum," she whispered, counting through the glass. Bill consulted his notebook, the same one he'd used for the Brink's job, the museum job, and that unfortunate incident at the aquarium. According to his research, seven-year-old Timothy Pemberton IV had requested exactly one gift: a live pony named Duke. "Ponies don't fence well," Bill said. Molly unfolded blueprints she'd bribed a kindergartner to draw. The plan was elegant: enter through the bounce house, exit through the cake table. Bill would handle the entertainment, namely a retired safecracker named Fingers who'd gone legitimate, which in their world meant face paint and balloon animals. Bill asked about contingencies; Molly's answer remained the one that had carried them through the regrettable cruise ship incident. "If anyone asks, we're the pony." "It worked at the zoo." Bill sighed the sigh of a man who'd once emptied a Swiss vault and now cased children's parties. Still, twenty presents. Retirement wouldn't fund itself. "Positions, Bill." They bounced.