Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TB2BZXBDCP5J0D5GW9B2CB

Molly spread the blueprint across the kitchen table, weighting the corners with a jar of dill pickles and Bill's leftover egg sandwich. The blueprint was, in fact, a crayon drawing of the Hendersons' backyard that she had commissioned from her nephew for the price of two juice boxes. "The party starts at two. Bouncy castle here, clown here. Presents on the patio table, guarded by a piñata and parental negligence," she said, tapping a red scribble. "What's the clown's deal?" "Balloon animals. Distraction potential. We do not engage the clown." "Copy. No clown engagement." Bill leaned over the map with the solemn concentration of a man once outsmarted by a revolving door. He was the muscle, though his greatest act of violence remained an apology he had given a vending machine after kicking it. Molly had been planning this for three weeks, ever since she had learned that little Timmy Henderson was getting the Deluxe Mega Fortress playset, the one with the working drawbridge. It retailed for four hundred dollars. On the secondary market, she could flip it for two-fifty, maybe three hundred if the box was not dented. This was not their first job together. There had been the aquarium gift shop, which had gone smoothly, and the pumpkin patch, which had not, owing to Bill's moral awakening near the hay bales. "We go in through the hedge at two-fifteen, cake time. Every eye will be on a six-year-old fighting trick candles," she continued. "Those things are rigged. My cousin's boy cried for an hour," Bill said gravely. "Focus, Bill." "Focused." She slid a photograph across the table. "The loot. Thirty presents, give or take. Big boxes first. Anything that rattles, leave it—rattling means Legos, and Legos mean sharp corners." It was, Molly felt, the perfect crime, provided one did not examine the words "perfect" or "crime" too closely, and provided no six-year-old got heroic. Bill nodded slowly, the way he nodded at everything, including funerals and weather forecasts. "And the getaway?" "Denise's minivan. She thinks we're doing a raffle pickup." "She'll kill us when she finds out." "She'll kill you. I have charm." Bill considered this and found it accurate. They had matching polo shirts reading PARTY PROS, purchased at a discount because the second R was missing, and a clipboard, because no one in history had ever questioned a clipboard. Molly would carry the clipboard. Bill would carry the empty duffel bags and an expression of professional neutrality, which on Bill looked mostly like mild concern. Bill reached for the crayon map and turned it sideways. "What is this green blob?" "That is the Hendersons' dog, Kevin." "The blob has a name?" "Kevin is an unknown variable, Bill. Kevin is the reason I packed ham." Molly folded the map with ceremony and slid it into a folder labeled TAXES, because no one in history had ever opened a folder labeled taxes. Bill retrieved his sandwich, and they sat in the satisfied silence of professionals, picturing the drawbridge.