Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9CRNFNVGVCTJCD4NT3HR2

The getaway van smelled like frosting and bad decisions, which, to be fair, was mostly Bill's cologne. He'd parked two blocks from the suburban house, where a helium balloon arch swayed like an overeager guard dog. Molly sat in the passenger seat, knees knocking against a cardboard box labeled "Party Supplies" in handwriting that looked suspiciously like ransom-note practice. "Tell me again why we're robbing a seven-year-old," Molly whispered. "Because kids' parties are the Fort Knox of unguarded consumer goods," Bill said. He flicked open a spiral notebook, blueprints of the backyard printed in pastel crayon. "Last time we hit a retirement home bingo night, you cried during cake," Molly said. "Those people had stories, Molly; kids just have stickers and a sugar problem," Bill replied. Outside, shrieks of tiny humans drifted over, punctuated by the wet thump of something hitting a piñata. A banner reading "HAPPY 7TH, OLIVIA!" sagged across the fence like it was already tired of this timeline. "I'm not wearing a clown nose again; it left a ring on my soul," Molly muttered. "It's a unicorn theme; you'll blend in as 'Disillusioned Aunt From Out Of Town,'" Bill said. "Your code names get longer every job," Molly said. "Length confuses witnesses; by the time they finish saying it, we're gone," Bill said. "So what's the plan, O Criminal Einstein of Cupcake Lane?" Molly asked. "We infiltrate as party entertainment, locate the present table, swap in decoys, exit with loot," Bill said. Bill had circled the present table three times on his crude map, then added a little halo above it. To him, loot was sacred; to Molly, loot was just another way to pay rent without talking to landlords. A faint chorus of "Baby Shark" leaked from the house, the universal anthem of parental surrender. Molly shuddered as though someone had walked over her grave and left plastic confetti. "Decoys meaning those educational wooden toys nobody wants?" Molly said. "Exactly; we're redistributing joy from phonics to laser-tag robots," Bill said. "You're aware we're villains in a children's morality tale, right?" Molly said. "Villains get all the good lines and none of the nap schedules," Bill replied. "Fine, but I'm not doing balloon animals; last time I accidentally made a noose," Molly said. "Relax; you just twist until it looks vaguely festive and not legally actionable," Bill said. "What about security, besides a feral piñata and three overcaffeinated dads?" Molly asked. "Intel says one magician, one face-painter, zero threat; worst case, we bribe with glitter," Bill said. He tapped the drawing of the gift pile, a colorful rectangle fortress beside the bouncy castle. In the margin he'd written "Objective Alpha" and drawn a smiley face wearing a ski mask. A gust of wind rattled the van, carrying with it the scent of grilled hotdogs and impending lawsuits. Molly adjusted her sequined blazer, which had seen better cons and worse lighting. Somewhere inside, a child wailed; the party had begun. "If glitter's involved, this is officially war," Molly said.