Run: 2026-10-20-01M5C6J7KEBMWRREJA5QZ09MED

Molly flattened Timothy’s birthday invitation against the van’s dashboard and studied it like a bank floor plan. The invitation was sticky with juice and smelled faintly of cake, which made the whole operation feel less like a felony and more like a dare. The community center had two hundred guests, one bouncy castle, and a gift table positioned behind a clown with a horn. Bill lowered the binoculars and stared at the front door, where a banner promised cake, presents, and a party photographer with the posture of a security guard. “Two hundred guests, one bouncy castle, and a gift table behind a clown,” Molly said. “The clown is the security system,” Bill said. “He has a horn.” Molly pulled the lanyards from the glove box with a flourish that suggested she had practiced in the mirror. “We go in as face painters.” Bill examined the badge. “I paint like a raccoon with a grudge.” “You paint a blob and call it modern.” Bill checked the building again. The side door was chained, the windows were covered in cartoon animals, and a laundry cart sat near the gift table like a gift from the heist gods. Molly had already measured the distance from the laundry cart to the van in party-hat lengths; Bill had already decided he did not like the number. “The side door is chained.” “Then we use the laundry cart.” “That cart belongs to the center.” “Tonight it belongs to us.” Bill rubbed his forehead. “What about the children?” “They’ll be watching the magician.” “I’m the magician?” “You’re the distraction.” Bill slumped in the passenger seat. “I hate this plan.” “You’ll love the pigeon.” Molly unfolded a crayon sketch of the party room. The presents were gift cards, wireless headphones, and one robotic dinosaur with an expensive gleam. Bill’s crayon sketch included a dotted escape route, two stick-figure parents, and a stick-figure clown with an alarming number of muscles. “The presents are gift cards and a robotic dinosaur.” “And the parents?” “Nobody’s heart gets broken. Joy is being redistributed.” Bill tapped the sketch. He said it in the tone of a man who had once been chased out of a petting zoo. “If a child asks for a dinosaur, I’m leaving.” “Paint a blob.” “And my name?” “You’re Sir Brushalot. My name is Sparkle.” Bill put on the lanyard like a man accepting a prison sentence. The lanyard clip bit his collar, and the badge photo made him look like a disappointed librarian. “At two fifteen, back of the van.” “And the clown?” “He takes a bow.” Bill sighed. “This is the best plan we’ve had all year.” Molly started the engine. The van’s glove box rattled, the pigeon in the back seat cooed, and the party banner flapped in the wind. Molly backed out of the lot, checked her watch, and practiced her Sparkle smile until it looked almost legal. Somewhere inside, Timothy’s seventh birthday was about to become a logistics problem.