Run: 2026-10-06-01M48VR4GTZ62SXX9YFPT84D25

The community center basement smelled like stale juice boxes and broken dreams. Molly spread a hand-drawn map across a folding table while Bill chewed on a pencil, his eyes fixed on the door. "You're sure about this?" Bill asked. "Seven-year-olds, Bill. Seven-year-olds with parents who spent three hundred dollars on a princess package." "They have security." "They have a college student in a tiara." Bill finally looked up. "That's still security." Molly leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Think about it. No alarms. No dogs. Just a room full of presents wrapped in paper that practically screams 'steal me.' And the cake. Bill, there's going to be cake." "Since when do you care about cake?" "Since I realized we could sell the cake." Bill set down his pencil. "You want to steal a child's birthday cake." "I want to steal a child's birthday presents, Bill, and if the cake is in the way, the cake goes too. We're professionals." "We're unemployed." "We're between engagements." Bill stood up and walked to the window, peering at the parking lot where a minivan disgorged small children in party hats. "What's the plan?" "Simple. I go in as entertainment. You create a distraction." "What kind of distraction?" Molly smiled, the one that had gotten her out of three traffic tickets and one very awkward police interview. "The kind that involves a fire alarm." Bill turned around. "You want me to pull a fire alarm at a children's party." "I want you to pull a fire alarm at a children's party while I'm dressed as Elsa." "That's not a distraction. That's a felony with a costume." "It's a misdemeanor with excellent branding. Think about it—while everyone's evacuating, I waltz in through the back, load the presents into your van, and we're gone before anyone realizes their seven-year-old's Lego set is now in a pawn shop in Secaucus." Bill was quiet for a long moment. Then he laughed, a short bark that surprised them both. "You're insane." "I'm ambitious. There's a difference." "There's also a difference between stealing from adults and stealing from children." Molly's smile didn't waver. "The children won't know. Their parents have insurance. Insurance companies have money. We have rent due." "That's not how insurance works." "That's exactly how insurance works, Bill. Someone loses, someone gains, and in this case, the someone gaining is us." Bill walked back to the table and studied the map. "The presents will be in the party room. There's a closet. You could hide there until—" "Until I'm Elsa. Yes. I've thought this through." "You don't know any Elsa songs." "I know the one song. 'Let It Go.' I've been practicing." Bill raised an eyebrow. "In the shower?" "In the shower, in the car, in my sleep apparently, because my roommate says I was singing it at three in the morning." "That's not practicing. That's a cry for help." Molly grabbed his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "Bill, we've done harder jobs. The museum. The pharmaceutical warehouse. The time you accidentally stole a police horse." "I didn't steal the horse. I borrowed the horse." "You kept the horse for six weeks." "She was lonely! Her name was Barbara!" "Barbara the horse is living her best life on a farm in Vermont, and we got away with it because we had a plan. We have a plan now." Bill looked at the map, then at Molly, then at the window where a small girl pressed her face against the glass, her party hat slightly askew. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or the ghost of a conscience he'd misplaced years ago. "What time's the party?" "Four o'clock. We move at 4:15." "And if I don't pull the alarm?" Molly released his hand and smoothed her jacket. "Then I find someone else to pull the alarm, and you find yourself explaining to Barbara why you won't be visiting her in Vermont this summer." Bill stared at her. "You would replace me that easily?" "I would replace you with a smoke bomb and a timer if I had to. But you're better at fire alarms. You have a gift." "That's not a gift." "Everything's a gift if you're desperate enough, Bill. Now. Are we doing this, or are you going to stand there questioning my ethics while a room full of unopened presents waits for us?" Outside, the small girl waved at someone inside, her face splitting into a grin that showed two missing front teeth. Bill watched her for a long moment, then reached for his pencil again. "Fine," he said. "But if this goes wrong, I'm blaming you." "That's the spirit." Molly rolled up the map and tucked it into her bag. "Meet me at the van in twenty. And Bill?" "Yeah?" "Practice your alarm-pulling face. You look guilty when you're nervous." "I don't look guilty. I look alert." "You look like someone who's about to commit arson in a building full of children." Bill smiled despite himself. "That's my natural expression." They shook hands, two thieves sealing a pact over the fate of a seven-year-old's birthday, while somewhere inside, a child laughed at a joke she didn't understand, and a cake waited, innocent and doomed, on a table that would soon be empty.