Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AT2NV1YQY1KA8X18ARGE32

Molly spread the crayon-drawn map across the kitchen table, her finger hovering over the glitter-stained coordinates of Tommy Henderson's seventh birthday bash at the community center. "The east lawn," she whispered, tapping a smiley-face sun drawn in purple marker. "We hit at 3:15, right after the piñata." Bill leaned against the refrigerator, arms crossed and scowling. "You want us to rob a seven-year-old?" "It's not robbery," Molly said, not looking up. "It's redistribution of surplus party favors. Tommy has fourteen stuffed animals. He literally cannot hug them all." "We're not stealing from a child, Molly." "We're stealing from the parents who bought seventeen-dollar Paw Patrol figurines," she corrected. "The kid will be distracted by cake. We'll slip in like ninjas." Bill rubbed his temples. "Last week you said ninjas weren't real." "I said I didn't believe in them. Different thing." Molly finally looked up, her eyes gleaming with the manic focus of a woman who had definitely thought about this far too hard. "Look, the Hendersons have a wine cellar. While we're lifting the gift table, you grab the 2019 Bordeaux. We're diversifying." "You're going to steal wine from a kid's birthday party?" "I'm going to steal wine from the adults at a kid's birthday party. There's a distinction." Bill opened his mouth, but Molly held up a hand. "And before you say it—yes, I know what happened at the retirement home. That was different. Those people had dentures. These are children. Soft targets." "That makes it worse!" "That makes it easier!" Molly slammed her palm on the table. "Think about it, Bill. No security systems. Just a bouncy castle and one overworked teenager in a dinosaur costume. We dress as clowns." "We can't be clowns. I'm terrified of clowns." "You're wearing the big shoes regardless. I've already ordered them." She pulled out a measuring tape and a glossy catalog. "Size eleven, extra wide. Orange, obviously. Very on-brand." Bill stared at the tape measure. "You ordered clown shoes for a heist." "I ordered them for the aesthetic," Molly said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But when you're six feet tall in size eleven orange shoes, nobody asks questions. They just think you're committed to the bit. Plus, I found the guest list. Mrs. Chen is bringing a PlayStation. A PlayStation, Bill. For a seven-year-old." "That's... actually impressive parenting." "It's excessive," Molly corrected. "Excessive means loot. Now, the getaway. We need a vehicle that blends in. I was thinking a minivan." "A minivan?" "White. Obviously. With a 'My child is an honor student' bumper sticker. We grab the presents and drive away while the kids watch Frozen for the third time. Nobody suspects the minivan." Bill sat down heavily, the chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. "Molly, we're going to prison." "We're going to Cancun," she said, grinning. "With Tommy's Lego sets. Now, are you in, or are you too scared?" Bill looked at the map, then the clown shoe catalog on the counter, then sighed heavily. "Fine. But if caught, I'm telling the judge you made me do it." "Deal," Molly said, extending her hand. "Partners in crime." "Partners in... whatever this is." They shook on it. Outside, somewhere nearby in the suburban afternoon, a child laughed, completely unaware that two adults in clown shoes were coming for his presents.