Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA0TPHKG8GTAE6Y8KHP2WJ

Molly crouched behind the hydrangeas of Mrs. Donnelly’s backyard, studying the battlefield of pastel balloons and sticky little footprints. A banner screamed HAPPY SEVEN, as if the yard itself were yelling. Bill adjusted his black beanie, which made him look less like a criminal mastermind and more like a nervous chess pawn. Their gear was modest: a canvas sack, two juice boxes for cover, and a roll of wrapping paper to disguise the sack as “extra decorations.” The smell of hot dogs drifted over, weaponizing nostalgia. Somewhere a kid tested a kazoo like an air raid siren. Molly drew a map in dirt with a plastic spoon. Presents sat in a glittering pile beside the picnic table, guarded by a sleeping golden retriever wearing a party hat. Bill swallowed, eyeing the dog’s teeth and the nearby sprinkler control. Bill’s watch beeped; he muted it with panic, pretended it was a hiccup. “We nab the presents, Bill, and leave the clown untouched.” “Fine, but if the piñata swings, I’m running first anyway.” On the count of the birthday song, they’d slip through the side gate, swap the sack for the pile, and vanish before anyone noticed the sudden absence of joy.