Run: 2026-10-13-01M4TC2V65J6G5BAE526RPVMR8

Molly unrolled the blueprint across the hood of the Buick, pinning the corners with a juice box, a sock full of pennies, a can of off-brand cheese whiz, and Bill's left hand. They had been parked across from the Henderson residence since dawn, living on gas station taquitos and ambition. "Quit fidgeting." "I'm expressing concern with my fingers." She tapped the diagram with a crayon, the good crayon, the one Bill wasn't allowed to touch. The target: one birthday boy, age six, twenty guests, and a pile of presents the size of a refrigerator. Through the fence they could see the yard being prepped. A catered taco bar. A petting zoo. A cake shaped like a dinosaur with feelings. "What's the security situation?" "One bouncy castle, a magician, and a grandmother who naps after cake." "Grandmothers are unpredictable. Mine once bit a mailman." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. This was the crew she could afford. Bill's criminal record consisted of shoplifting a ham and returning the next day for the glaze, and he had once been outrun by a mall cop on a Segway with a flat tire. "We go in as entertainers," she said. "Clowns?" "Balloon artists." "Same thing. Same dark arts." In the trunk sat two matching aprons reading BALLOON BUDDIES, purchased with a coupon, because Molly believed in professionalism and also in saving two dollars. "You make a dog, a sword, a hat. I watched a tutorial." "How long?" "Four minutes." Bill went pale beneath his five o'clock shadow, which was approaching six-thirty. "At two-fifteen the magician starts his finale. Every kid watches." "Does the rabbit have a name?" "No." "A good thief knows the rabbit's name." Molly counted to ten, a technique her parole officer swore by. "We sweep the gifts into duffel bags. Ninety seconds." She quizzed him on the plan three times. He failed twice, then passed by accident. "What if some six-year-old hero tries to stop us?" "We give him a balloon dog." "A bribe." "A distraction." Bill nodded the way a man nods when he understands one word in ten. Molly folded the blueprint and stared at the house, where a banner reading HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY TYLER flapped in the breeze like a dare. "You know what the take is? Twenty presents. Gaming systems. Bikes. One kid got a pony." "A pony won't fit in a duffel bag." "That's why we brought the trailer." Bill turned to regard the rusted trailer behind them, which held two duffel bags, three hundred balloons, and a helium tank stolen from a party supply store the week before, an event Bill called the practice heist and the police called an active investigation. "He's six," Bill said, suddenly troubled. "He's had six good years, Bill. Nobody gets seven." She started the engine. Somewhere in the trailer, a balloon popped, and Bill screamed like a teakettle. Molly smiled for the first time in weeks. It was going to be a beautiful crime.