Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB67GDGM5M17PS6JYR0CAT

Molly and Bill crouched in the shadow of a lemon tree across the street. The party house glowed through lace curtains, a constellation of cartoon streamers and smiling faces. Molly patted a bulging sack and whispered about zipper tricks while Bill checked a battered notebook full of wildly impractical contingencies. They rehearsed entrances like dancers, practiced nods, timing, and a tiny trapeze of excuses. A hamster on a leash barked like a tiny alarm, and a toddler launched a plastic rocket that struck the hedges with cartoon violence. Through the window, an adult dropped frosting onto a sleeve and swore with parental dignity. The night smelled of sugar and wet grass. Molly adjusted a pair of gloves that had once belonged to a pantomime and hummed an old radio jingle under her breath. Bill tried to whistle but only managed a sound like a dying kazoo; they both laughed, soft and conspiratorial, so low it could be mistaken for a radiator. They staged a final inventory: gloves, decoy raccoon, garbage bag, cake tray, harmonica, polite lies. Timing was everything. They planned for the cake cutting, the sugar surge, the moment when adults were momentarily busy with photos and sticky hands. If anything went wrong they would employ the fallback: an offer to help with dirty plates and the kind of apologies that double as escape routes. They rose as one, shadow puppets refolding into thieves, and crossed the lawn with the solemnity of novice ninjas. They hoped dessert would cooperate. "Okay, Molly, here's the plan. We glide in with cake forks and helium, distract with balloons, scoop the presents, vanish." "Cake forks and helium? You mean you rented a clown supply catalog again?" "Fine, not rented. Found in an alley under a unicycle. Back to the distraction: sing 'Happy Birthday' off-key." "You sing; you always hit the tuba note and children cry. I do the nimble fingers, I like nimble fingers." "Nimble fingers is your stage name? Also what's our exit? My van now has a party streamer stuck to the windshield." "Through the cake tray, like last summer. You remember the sprinkler fiasco?" "I remember soggy balloons, soggier guilt. We improvise: confetti parachutes and a decoy piñata." "Decoy piñata? You brought a papier-mâché raccoon that whines existentially." "It doubles as a distraction and a therapist. Also snacks. Never underestimate snacks for toddlers." "Our target list? One Barbie, two LEGO sets, an army of plush dinosaurs and a suspiciously educational board game." "Educational board games are booby-trapped with moral lessons. We'll bag the dinosaurs first; they cause fewer tantrums." "Tantrums we can misattribute to sugar. Also we should consider the parental unit: a man with a suspicious apron." "Distract him with gardening advice. He'll be flattered and leave the sword cake cutter unattended." "I have a fake degree in horticulture. Also a certificate in 'Cake Cutter Negotiation'." "We need an empty garbage bag large enough for a piñata and small enough to avoid suspicion." "Charms, tips, harmonica. We are ready."