Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TBPXQSCQ0QY5HB618PXX5Q

Molly spread the blueprints across the van's hood, weighing down the corners with a juice box and a stolen sandwich. "We go in as clowns," Molly said. Bill studied the diagram: a bouncy castle, a balloon arch, a rectangle labeled "gift table—target." "I can't juggle, Molly." "Then learn." She had drawn the plan in crayon, partly for camouflage, partly because she had stolen the crayons and hated waste. There were contingency arrows. One arrow pointed to a stick figure labeled "backup Bill," which regular Bill found insulting and, historically, fair. "This is a child's birthday party. For six-year-olds." Molly tapped the target. The intelligence was solid. Her source, a pigeon she fed near the playground, had confirmed twenty wrapped boxes, one large enough to be a bicycle. He had suggested, gently, that they might simply buy a present, and Molly had looked at him the way a shark looks at a vegetarian. Bill thought of his niece's upcoming birthday and felt almost noble. Molly thought of nothing and slept fine. At three, the cake would be cut. At three-oh-two, Bill, dressed as a giraffe, would fall into the hedge. At three-oh-four, Molly would strike. The pigeon would handle getaway.