Run: 2026-09-24-01M39WV6ZBE0V61Q8WP2KD35ZD

Molly had cased banks, museums, and one deeply regrettable aquarium, but she had never surveilled a bouncy castle before. This one was shaped like a dragon, deflating slowly at the left nostril, wheezing like an old man on stairs. She'd stolen a Fabergé egg once. Somehow this felt harder. The egg hadn't come with parents. She passed the binoculars to Bill, who slumped in the passenger seat wearing a ski mask in July because Molly insisted on professionalism. Through the lenses, the backyard resolved into chaos: eleven children, two folding tables, and a clown making balloon animals with the serene efficiency of a surgeon. "Security's tight," Molly said. "The security is a woman in a birthday hat holding a juice box." "The clown is the alarm system. You get near the present table, he honks. Kids scatter, parents look up, we're made." Bill lowered the binoculars and studied the clown. The van at the curb promised Certified Fun. Bill distrusted anyone who certified themselves in anything, but he had to admit the balloon giraffe was flawless. Then there was the piñata: a donkey hanging from the oak, turning slowly in the breeze like a warning to sailors. Molly had briefed him on piñata protocol for two hours the night before. It was, she explained, the guard dog of the party — blind, leashed, and packed with enough sugar to trigger a stampede if mishandled. Bill rubbed his eyes under the mask. "Walk me through it again. We have forty years of professional thieving between us, and the job is stealing birthday presents. From children." "From one child. The client wants the whole haul." "Who's the client, Mol?" Molly hesitated, which was rare. "Tiffany. Age six. The birthday girl's preschool rival." "We're doing a job for a kindergartner." "She pays in a jar of coins and three gummy worms. Best rate we've had all year." The gummy worms had melted into a single multicolored blob. But the coins were real, and business was business, even when the business was morally bankrupt. Molly laid the blueprint across the dashboard — drawn in crayon on a Chuck E. Cheese placemat, which she claimed was for authenticity. Phase one: Bill contained the piñata. Phase two: Molly neutralized the clown. Phase three: garbage bags, presents, exit. "You're on piñata duty," she said. "Piñata duty." "Keep it calm. Talk to it if you have to." Bill wanted to point out that the museum guard in Lisbon had been a person and this was a papier-mâché donkey, but arguing with Molly was like arguing with weather. He took the binoculars instead — and froze. A small girl in a party hat was staring directly at the van. Unblinking. Patient. She had the cold stillness of a professional and had been there for at least two minutes. "Mol." "I see her." Kids that age had no peripheral vision and no fear. This one would either rat them out or ask to join the crew. The girl raised one fat little hand and waved. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a mob boss acknowledging a debtor. "Is she recruiting us?" Molly started the engine. "We're leaving." The van peeled away in a screech of regret. Behind them, the dragon castle wheezed out its final breath. Bill pulled off his mask. "We're quitting a six-year-old's heist because another six-year-old outplayed us?" "We're professionals, Bill. Not philosophers." Molly checked the mirror. The girl was still watching, party hat perfectly level. "And we never work two sides of a birthday party."