Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9DM4Y6EGPSMTWHX9E7D5Q

Bill and Molly crouched behind a leaning inflatable unicorn that sighed with tired glitter, surveying the suburban battlefield. Streamers flapped like defeated flags across the fence, and somewhere a bubble machine wheezed heroic bubbles into the petunias. From the open garage, an adult yelled something about frosting boundaries, which boded well for distraction potential. Molly tugged her backpack straps the way generals adjust sashes before wars sponsored by buttercream. "We are not stealing candy, Bill, just rehoming gifts to grateful, hypothetical nieces and nephews." Bill peered through a curtain of party favors that had once been a curtain but now resembled festive kelp. Children ricocheted in the yard with the strategic foresight of confetti, while parents ferried plates with stunned politeness. "Semantics aside, infiltration requires subtlety, like balloons, smiles, and shoes that squeak apologetically at children." Molly produced a folded blueprint that was, in fact, a grocery receipt annotated with arrows and cake crumbs. She unfolded it with the pomp of royalty revealing a treaty, except this treaty had sprinkles. "I've rehearsed a backstory: distant cousin, clown-phobic, here to supervise cake integrity inspections for safety." Bill nodded as if the receipt contained battle maps and not an impulse purchase of novelty pickles. A red plastic slide arced into the grass like a question mark about adulthood, and somewhere balloons barked. "And I'm the designated Parental Oversight Consultant, specializing in ribbon untangling and emergency piñata arbitration." Molly checked her watch, which was painted on with eyeliner for morale. She measured the thump of distant bass and the squeal of folding chairs scraping destiny. Timing, like frosting, preferred room temperature confidence. "Remember, we target rectangular packages with responsible tape usage; chaotic wrapping indicates unpredictable internal politics." An avalanche of cupcakes rolled by on a wagon, stewarded by a child in a cape. The cape read POWER NAP, which felt like a threat, or at least a promise of napalm yawns. Bill made notes on his palm with a marker that smelled like existential grapes. "Unpredictable politics produce maracas, slime kits, or experimental kites designed expressly to shame burglars publicly." A cloud passed; the unicorn groaned; a sprinkler clicked alive and began interrogating the lawn with glittery spit. Molly angled her clipboard, which was actually a cutting board, to shield them from the spritzing crossfire. Bill, ever the craftsman, squeezed into the giraffe vest and achieved immediate moral ambiguity. "Disguises: you wear the giraffe vest, I'll carry the clipboard and moral authority all day." They listened to the opening bars of musical chairs, anthem of small collapses and victorious bottoms. Parents ringed the patio with disposable stoicism, holding coffee like shields, remembering passwords to youth. Molly heard negotiations over seats, overtures to chaos already brightly wrapped in kazoos. "If questioned, I discuss nutrition: cake is a vegetable because it contains domesticated carrots allegedly." "Timing is crucial; we strike during musical chairs, when adults reconsider life's decisions and gravity." "I'll handle exit strategy: decoy conga line, synchronized yawns, and a trampoline-based van rendezvous nearby."