Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TAXMYCN46AGEN29S29BS6C

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the hood of the Buick, pinning one corner with a juice box she'd stolen for authenticity. The blueprint was drawn in crayon on the back of a placemat, because Molly believed presentation mattered. It was midnight in the Pancake Barn parking lot, which she considered the ideal venue for felony planning: unlimited coffee, and a waitress who minded her own business. "Right," she said. "Target: 42 Maple Lane. Saturday, two o'clock." "A kid's birthday party," Bill said flatly. "A kid's birthday party," Molly confirmed. "We've knocked over three banks, Molly." "And how much did we clear from those banks?" Bill scratched his chin and did the math on a napkin. "Negative four hundred, after the dye pack and the parking tickets." "Exactly. Banks are a scam. But this—" she tapped a crayon bouncy castle, "—this is a goldmine. The Henderson kid turns seven. Do you know what seven-year-olds get in this neighborhood?" "Nits?" "Presents. Tablets, consoles, a drone if the grandma's feeling guilty. Two grand of merchandise in a pile, unguarded." "Except for the parents." "Parents are the easiest mark alive. Exhausted, hopped up on frosting, distracted by thirty screaming children. We go in as the entertainment." Bill squinted at her. "What entertainment?" Molly reached into the back seat and produced two clown wigs. Bill looked at them the way a man looks at a diagnosis. "Absolutely not." "You get to be Bongo." "I want to be Dazzle." "Dazzle's mine. I planned the job." Bill took the Bongo wig with the resignation of a man who had stopped fighting for his dignity around the time of the dye pack. He held it up to the parking lot lights. It smelled faintly of a previous owner's poor decisions, which, in fairness, so did Bill. "Walk me through it," he sighed. Molly's finger traced the crayon route, past a stick-figure dog she'd drawn for morale. "We arrive at one-forty-five. I do balloon animals to build trust—" "You can't do balloon animals." "I can do a snake." "That's just a balloon." "A snake is the gateway animal. While I'm dazzling, you hit the gift table. Pillowcase, ninety seconds. We exit during the piñata—nobody looks anywhere but at a piñata." Bill considered this, stirring his coffee with the wig's tag still dangling from his fist. "What if the kids see us?" "Kids are terrible witnesses." "What if one bites?" "Then you've learned something about yourself." He turned the wig over. A moth flew out, took one look at the situation, and left. "Molly. Be honest. Is this a new low?" Molly folded the blueprint with great care, creasing it along the bouncy castle. "Bill, last month we stole commemorative spoons from a Denny's. This is a step up. This is a score with a theme." "A seven-year-old's theme." "Dinosaurs," Molly said, offended. "The theme is dinosaurs." Bill climbed into the passenger seat, Bongo's wig already on his head, because some battles were not worth fighting twice.