Run: 2026-10-20-01M5C6J9M8J8H1462HF39V6K65

Molly unfolded the party invitation on the van’s sticky dashboard and smoothed it with the edge of a screwdriver. The van smelled of old balloons and wet cardboard, and Bill was eating a gas-station sandwich with the urgency of a man who had never met a crumb he didn’t like. “Remind me why we’re robbing a six-year-old’s birthday party?” Bill asked from the driver’s seat. Molly tapped the invitation. “Because the parents are loaded, the presents are designer, and nobody expects a heist at a unicorn-themed rager.” Bill chewed thoughtfully. “Balloons?” “Defenses,” Molly said. “A wall of them. We pop through the left side, avoid the glitter cannon.” “Piñata?” “Paper-mache donkey, reinforced with duct tape. We leave it. Too noisy.” “Clown?” “Magician. He does a trick where he saws a volunteer in half. We go in as his assistants.” Bill stopped chewing. “Have you ever assisted a magician?” “I can juggle.” “That’s not assisting.” “Details.” Molly unfolded a crayon map of the house, its corners softened by nervous folding. “Security is two parents, one grandma, and a bouncy castle.” “Bouncy castle’s a problem,” Bill said. “Exactly. It’s the perfect distraction. We hit the present table by the cake, then exit through the back gate.” “What about the kids?” “They’ll be distracted by the magician’s rabbit.” “Ethical?” “Bill, we’re stealing from children.” “Right. Ethics later.” Molly checked her watch. “Timing is after cake, before presents. Sugar rush gives us eight minutes.” “Codes?” “Front door’s unlocked. Grandma’s hard of hearing.” “Plan B?” “Run.” “Specifics?” “I wear the bear costume. You’re the magician’s assistant.” Bill looked down at his own long legs. “You fit in a bear costume?” “The head is roomy.” “Molly, you’re five foot two.” “Then I’ll crouch.” “Good. I’ll be the assistant.” “Can you do magic?” “I can make presents disappear.” “That’s the whole heist.” “Exactly.” Bill nodded slowly. “Okay. We need a van.” “Already got one.” “Does it say ‘Free Candy’ on the side?” “No. It says ‘Party Supplies.’” “Perfect.” Molly folded the map into a paper airplane and launched it at the glovebox. “One more thing.” “What?” Bill asked. “Don’t eat the cake.” “Why?” “Fingerprints.” “Right. And?” “And it’s probably gluten-free.” Bill grimaced. “Monsters.”