Run: 2026-10-06-01M48W3DDDXV906BSRFC9Q1YJJ

Molly spread the party invitations across the kitchen table like a deck of cards, each one featuring a grinning cartoon dinosaur wearing a party hat. "So let me get this straight," she said, tapping the glossy paper. "We're robbing a seven-year-old's birthday party." Bill adjusted his fake mustache in the mirror, practicing his "fun uncle" expression. "It's not robbing, Molly. It's... redistributing joy. From the joy-havers to the joy-needy." "There's a LEGO Death Star in there, Bill. A thousand dollars." "Exactly! Think of the children we could help with a thousand dollars." "What children?" Bill paused. "The children... of the world. Who need... LEGO Death Stars." Molly picked up a juice box from the counter, examined it like evidence. "You know what the worst part is? The cake. They're going to have cake, Bill. While we're hiding in the bounce house." "Then we take the cake too." "We can't take the cake. We're already taking the presents. You said the presents were the whole point." "The presents are the point. The cake is the bonus round." Molly sat down heavily in a chair that immediately squeaked. "I need you to understand something. I have a system. I have a code. I don't steal from children, Bill. I don't even steal from people who have children. It's a boundary." "But these children have a bounce house." "That's not—" Molly stopped. "How do you know about the bounce house?" Bill grinned, revealing a gap where his fake mustache wasn't quite glued. "I did reconnaissance. Tuesday. I wore a polo shirt. Very convincing. The mother thought I was a dad." "You went to a child's birthday party alone in a polo shirt?" "I brought a gift. A yo-yo. She loved it." He paused, suddenly serious. "Molly. The LEGO Death Star. Do you know what that represents? Imagination. Empire. The whole saga. Those kids are going to open that box and build something. They'll create worlds. And we'll be there, in the bounce house, watching them do it, with our sacks." "That's worse. That's so much worse." "Or we could be the heroes of the story. The mysterious uncles who... redistributed." Molly stood up, walked to the window, watched a neighbor walk their dog. "What's our cover story? If we get caught? Because we will get caught. There will be forty children and three parents with phones." Bill produced a laminated badge from his pocket. "Certified balloon artists. We're here to upgrade their entertainment." He held up a business card. "Bill and Molly's Party Enhancements. Established 2019." "You made business cards." "I made everything. Costumes, invitations, the whole infrastructure." He pulled out a tablet, scrolled through photos. "Look. Last month. Retirement community. They thought we were clowns. Paid us two hundred dollars to make balloon animals for a Tuesday." "That's not the same as a children's party." "Joy is joy, Molly. Age is a social construct." Molly turned back to the table, studied the dinosaur invitations. "Fine. But I'm drawing the line at the bounce house. I'm not hiding in a bounce house. I have a knee." "You'll be fine. I'll bring knee pads." "I don't want knee pads, Bill. I want a different heist." "There are no other heists. The LEGO Death Star is the heist. It's destiny." Molly picked up her coat. "I'm going to think about it." "Think about the cake, Molly. Think about the cake." She left. Bill remained, alone with the invitations, practicing his uncle laugh in the mirror. It sounded like a goose being strangled, but he was committed. For the Death Star. For the cake. For joy, redistributed.