Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TBPD2ET3ET0MA1SWFQ34T7

The van idled across the street from a house wearing balloons on its mailbox like a warning. Molly wore black, as always, though the only thing black attracted at a children's party was suspicion and frosting. She unrolled a blueprint, hand-drawn in crayon and stolen from the birthday boy's older sister, across the hood. "Target's a split-level on Maple. Party at two. We hit at two-forty-five." Bill squinted through a mouthful of gas-station sandwich. "Why two-forty-five?" "Musical chairs. Peak chaos. Nobody watches the gift table." Bill had that sinking feeling again. She caught his look. "I've thought about nothing else for three weeks." She tapped the dining room, where, through a distant window, a pyramid of wrapped boxes glittered like the world's least secure vault. "Presents pile up here. Linda the mom runs a tight ship, but crumbles if the magician's late." "There's a magician?" "There was a magician. His car has a flat on Route 9." Bill lowered the sandwich. "You gave a magician a flat tire." "He'll survive. He's a magician." From the backyard came the shriek of children discovering cake. Molly checked her watch, calm as a surgeon. Bill was less calm. "Piñata at three. Six minutes while they whack a donkey. Twenty-two RSVPs, two generous grandparents, one rich uncle. Call it thirty boxes." "Of what, though?" Molly hesitated. "Toys." "Toys." "And gift cards. Kids love gift cards." Bill rubbed his temples, leaving a smear of mustard he didn't notice. "We robbed a jewelry store in March. We had a tunnel." "The tunnel flooded." "We had a trajectory. Upward." "It's low-risk. Nobody expects a heist at a six-year-old's birthday." "Because it's insane!" "Because it's genius. No alarms, no cameras. Just Linda, twenty-two sticky kids, and Kevin the clown." "Kevin worries me." "Kevin's afraid of balloons and works with balloons. Kevin has problems." As if summoned, Kevin pedaled past on a bicycle, wig askew, radiating the despair of a man who had made choices. Neither thief acknowledged him. Bill folded his arms. "What's the take?" "Eight hundred in gift cards, a drone, and a Lego set retailing at two-fifty." "The castle one?" "The castle one." A long pause. Somewhere, a party blower unfurled. "That's a good set." "Right? These kids get so much stuff they won't miss six boxes. Remember your sixth birthday?" "No." "Exactly. No lasting damage." Bill sighed, then folded the blueprint with the care of a man accepting his fate. "Where do I park?" "Behind the bounce house. Sight lines are dead there." He gestured helplessly at himself. Molly grinned and tossed him a bag of long, skinny balloons. "You're the balloon artist." "I can't make balloon animals." "You can make one thing: a snake. It's a balloon you don't do anything to." Bill turned a balloon over like it might contain deeper meaning. "That's actually true." "See? Born for this job." "I was born for better than this job." "We all were. Get in the van." He got in the van. Across the street, twenty-two children were eating cake, blissfully unaware that two professionals were coming for their plastic treasures. Bill practiced his balloon snake the whole way around the block. It was perfect every time. It was also, he reflected, just a balloon.