Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AV54J9DQMNJ4TN4K42DJRV

Molly spread the blueprints across the sticky diner table. Bill nursed his lukewarm coffee, watching the neon sign flicker outside. "We're doing this," Molly said. "We're stealing from a six-year-old's birthday party," Bill said. "It's a gateway heist," Molly insisted, sliding a donut across the Formica. "No security, just a baby monitor playing lullabies. The adults are legally required to focus on cake." Bill picked up the donut, suspicious. "The presents are wrapped in Paw Patrol paper. What are we doing with forty-seven stuffed animals and a bicycle?" "We liquidate," Molly said, tapping her pen against the blueprint. "There's a pawn shop in Secaucus for 'lightly used' goods. They pay premium for sealed LEGO sets." "This is the lowest point of our careers," Bill muttered, sketching an escape route on his greasy napkin. Molly leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. "Timmy Morrison has been gloating about his console. Do you know the resale? Three hundred bucks, maybe four if sealed." "He's six, Molly. He believes in the Tooth Fairy." "Exactly. He won't even suspect a thing until it's too late. We hit during the pin-the-tail segment. The chaos will be our cover." Bill stirred his coffee, the spoon clinking softly. "What about the parents? Fifteen of them, including Dave from accounting. He does CrossFit." "We avoid the CrossFit dads," Molly said. "We stick to the wine moms. They're distracted and have the good snacks." "You want me to rob a child in front of his mother while she's doing a Facebook Live about organic juice?" "I want you to be efficient," Molly corrected. "We don't take the cake or goody bags. Just the presents. Clean. Surgical. Four minutes." Bill sighed, checking his phone. "Four minutes. You realize there's going to be a piñata involved? A donkey-shaped piñata that requires seventeen hits to break open?" "We don't wait for the piñata," Molly said. "We hit during 'Happy Birthday.' Everyone's singing, the kid's blowing out candles. I create a diversion and you grab the pile." "I hate this plan." "You love this plan. You love the adrenaline. You love pretending we're in a movie where the stakes matter." Molly grinned wickedly. "Besides, think of the karma. We steal from the haves—the child who already has everything—and redistribute to the adult resale market." Bill looked at Molly, then at his half-eaten donut. "What if the kid catches us? What if Timmy Morrison sees us taking his Xbox?" "Then we tell him we're the Ghost of Presents Past," Molly said, standing up. "And we vanish in a puff of glitter." "There won't be glitter." "There will be if I bring my own." Bill stood, sliding crumpled cash onto the table for their cold coffees. "Fine. But I'm wearing a disguise." "What kind?" "Clown." Molly groaned. "I hate clowns." "Perfect. The fear will make me faster." They walked out to the rain-slicked, empty parking lot. Molly texted their getaway driver. Bill checked his watch, counting down the hours. "Remember," Molly said, tossing him the keys, "we're not monsters. We're entrepreneurs." "Same difference," Bill said, unlocking the van. "Drive."