Run: 2026-09-29-01M3P2EER5GQHXCQP2NBCJQ3TK

Molly crouched behind the hydrangeas with a pair of binoculars she had stolen from a birdwatcher, which she considered poetic. Across the lawn, the Henderson backyard swelled with balloons, screaming seven-year-olds, and a bouncy castle shaped like a dragon. Bill wheezed into place beside her, wearing a black turtleneck and a party hat. "Why are you wearing that?" Molly whispered. "Camouflage," Bill said. "Blending in is the first rule of thievery." "The rule is not to blend in with the victims, Bill. Also, it says 'Happy Birthday Tyler' on your elastic." "It was the only hat in the van." Molly lowered the binoculars. "Right. The presents are on the folding table under the gazebo. Forty-two boxes. At two o'clock the magician arrives, and every child will be watching him pull a rabbit out of a hat." "Where's the rabbit from?" "Focus. That's our window. Ninety seconds. You distract the parents, I load the wheelbarrow." "Why me? I'm terrible with people." "You're wearing a party hat. You're a dad now." Bill considered this. "What kind of dad?" "The late, apologetic kind. Ask where the cake is. Complain about parking. Nobody questions a man complaining about parking." "That's actually brilliant," Bill said, adjusting his elastic. "What if someone asks which kid is mine?" "Point at the one eating glue." "Which one is eating glue?" Molly raised the binoculars again. "There's always one. Look for the small criminal." A shriek erupted. Three children shot out of the dragon like cannonballs, and Bill flinched. "I don't like this," he said. "Nobody cries over a stolen scone." "They get presents every year, Bill. It's character building." "That's what you said about the Girl Scout cookie truck." "And look how resilient those girls turned out. One tried to hire us." Bill sighed. "What if the presents are just socks?" "Seven-year-olds don't get socks. They get drones, slime kits, and anything with batteries that will haunt us." "Slime is valuable?" "Slime is currency." A man in an apron began waving a spatula near the gazebo. Molly stiffened. "Change of plan. Barbecue Dad is guarding the table." Bill straightened his hat with grim purpose. "Leave him to me." "What are you going to do?" "Ask him about his grill." Molly stared at him. "That's diabolical." "I know," Bill said, and marched across the lawn, already calling out, "Is this a gas situation or charcoal?" Molly watched Barbecue Dad's face light up with the terrible joy of a man who had finally been asked. Within seconds he had one arm around Bill and the other around a rack of ribs. She cracked her knuckles, seized the wheelbarrow, and slipped through the hydrangeas. "Forgive me, Tyler," she whispered, and went to work.