Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TBNB6T83VARYN0PB02BAPA

The Blue Plate Diner had seen many things in its forty years—three health code violations, one extremely apologetic raccoon—but never a heist planned over pie. Molly spread the floor plan across the table, weighing down the corners with a meatball sub, a sugar dispenser, and Bill's left hand. "Ow," said Bill. "Fourteen Maplewood Drive," she said. "Party starts at two. Presents hit the dining room table at two-fifteen, after the magician but before the cake." "What's our cover?" "You're the magician." Bill considered this. His résumé, in order, included locksmithing, getaway driving, and one regrettable summer as a mall elf. Magic was not on it. Magic had never been on it. "I don't know magic," he said. "You know the one where you make my patience disappear. Focus. Table's eight feet from the patio door. In and out, ninety seconds." He squinted at the diagram, which Molly had drawn to scale and annotated in three colors of pen, including a small sketch of a dog labeled BISCUIT (BRIBEABLE). One rectangle in the yard concerned him. "What's that?" "Bouncy castle." "We could hide in the bouncy castle." "It's the first place they'd look, Bill. It wobbles." Security, she explained, consisted of the aforementioned Biscuit, a father named Gary who would be emotionally absent at the barbecue, and a single doorbell camera. It was the camera that produced, from Molly's bag, a rainbow wig and a red foam nose. Bill recoiled so hard the sugar dispenser rattled. His history with clowns was well documented, mostly by him, mostly at length. "You know about my thing with clowns," he said. "Your thing is that you are one. It's typecasting. I'm going as a responsible adult—nobody at a children's party has ever made eye contact with the person refilling the juice." "What's the take?" Molly consulted her notes. "One bicycle, red. One games console, shrink-wrapped. Eleven gift bags, contents unknown. One sweater, hand-knitted by the grandmother, with a hundred-dollar bill sewn into the collar." "We're robbing a grandma sweater?" "Family tradition. The kid's uncle told me at the bus stop. People tell me things, Bill. I have a trustworthy face." "You're planning to rob a six-year-old." "Five. He turns six Saturday. Read the briefing." Bill was quiet a moment, turning the foam nose over like a cursed relic. Around them the diner hummed. "Molly," he said finally, "are we the bad guys?" "We're the bad guys' subcontractors. Morally, that's a different form." "Who's the client?" "Does it matter?" "It matters if it's the kid's other grandma." Molly paused, which she never did. "It might be the other grandma." "Family disputes are above our pay grade." "Our pay grade is whatever's in the gift bags." She folded the map, reclaimed her sub, and slid the wig across the table with the gravity of a woman passing sentence. "Party's in four hours. Practice your balloon animals." "I know one balloon animal," Bill said. "A snake." "That's just a balloon." "That's just a balloon," he agreed, and put on the nose.