Run: 2026-10-06-01M48VYN1DXMAS738TS34MPFH0

The warehouse smelled of rust and forgotten dreams, which Molly found oddly comforting. She spread the blueprints across a crate of expired party favors, her finger tracing the route to the gift table. "Bill, you're staring at the bounce house again." She didn't look up. She knew that particular glazed expression. Bill had been fixated on inflatables since Tuesday. "I'm strategizing," Bill said, though his voice carried the weight of someone who had definitely not been strategizing. "The east entrance. Kids are predictable. They'll all cluster around the cake. We slip in during the singing." "During the singing," Molly repeated. "You want to rob children during 'Happy Birthday.'" "It's efficient." Molly finally met his eyes. Bill was sixty-three, retired from accounting, and wore a polo shirt with a shark on it. She had recruited him for his knowledge of suburban security systems. She had not anticipated his complete inability to grasp social context. "Bill. We are stealing from six-year-olds." "Technically their parents' presents." "Same thing." Bill nodded slowly, as if this distinction mattered. "The shark shirt is camouflage. Kids love sharks." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. Outside, a truck rumbled past, and somewhere in the distance, a child laughed. She thought of her own niece, who had once cried for an hour because someone touched her balloon. "New plan," Molly said. "We go in before the party. Hide in the supply closet. Wait until they're all distracted by the magician." Bill's eyes lit up. "The magician! I love magic." "You don't love magic, Bill. You're terrified of magic. You told me so last week." "Precisely why I'll appreciate the distraction." Molly gathered her blueprints. Somewhere, a clown car was being unloaded. She wondered if she was too old for this, if there was a statute of limitations on childhood theft. Then she remembered the debt, and the collectors who didn't care about moral complexity. "Supply closet," she said. "Midnight. Don't bring the shark shirt." Bill looked wounded. "But the children—" "Bill." He subsided, shark drooping. They had forty minutes until the first guests arrived. Molly checked her lock picks, her rope, her carefully prepared alibi. Everything was ready. Everything except her conscience, which had apparently filed for permanent leave several years ago. "Midnight," she repeated. "Try to look less like a felon." Bill straightened his shark polo with dignity. "I am a professional." Molly almost laughed. Almost.