Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AT2KM7G33BG6S128W9YWWN

Molly spread the crayon-drawn blueprint across the pizza-stained table, the glitter still wet on the paper. The napkin underneath had been used to wipe both marinara and ambition. She pointed at a smudge that might have been a house or possibly a dinosaur. "Timmy Morrison's fourth birthday bash. Saturday. Three o'clock. High-value targets." Bill squinted at the map, which appeared to have been sketched by a caffeinated squirrel. He leaned back in his chair, which creaked ominously under his weight. "A pony, Molly. Do you know what a pony fetches on the black market?" Molly adjusted her black turtleneck, which she had purchased specifically for this job despite the fact that it smelled faintly of mothballs and broken dreams. She pulled out a grappling hook from her utility belt, spinning it with practiced menace. The hook caught the light like a promise of riches. "We go in during the cake song. I create a diversion—fake allergic reaction to the frosting. You grab the gift table while I'm dying dramatically on the carpet." Bill nodded slowly, rubbing his temples with the resignation of a man who had seen too many Tuesday afternoons. He studied the blueprint with the intensity of a general planning a doomed invasion. "And when the six-year-olds spot us?" "Children are unreliable witnesses," Molly said, standing up to practice her heist walk. It was silent, predatory, and slightly limping because she'd twisted her ankle on a LEGO brick last Tuesday. Her limp had become legendary in certain circles. She knocked over a stack of juice boxes in her enthusiasm. "Besides, we dress as clowns." Bill checked his watch for the third time, his eye twitching with growing anxiety. "Clowns are terrifying now. We'll trigger PTSD before we reach the cake." Molly climbed onto the table, striking a pose that immediately toppled a lamp. "Balloon animals. Nice clowns." Bill scratched his chin, leaving a smudge of pizza grease. He kicked a stray My Little Pony toy under the couch. "What about the goodie bags? We leaving those?" "Amateurs take the goodie bags," Molly said, her eyes gleaming with the feverish light of someone who had definitely not slept enough. She was already climbing out the window with the grace of a raccoon in a hurry. "We want the LEGO Death Star. Parents are the marks. The children are just collateral cuteness." Bill sighed, folding the glitter map into his pocket. The paper crinkled like a dying leaf. He swept some crumbs off the table with a business card. "I still think we should hit the bank." Molly dangled from the fire escape, looking down at him with a grin that showed teeth which had seen too many heists and not enough dentists. She checked her grappling hook one last time. The fire escape groaned under her enthusiasm. "Bank has security cameras. Timmy has a sugar crash coming in forty-five minutes. It's perfect timing. Meet at the party." Bill looked up at her, utterly bewildered, clutching his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. "Those are for the dog?" "Everything's for the dog," Molly called back, disappearing into the alley with a soft thud. "Everything's for the dog."