Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5HZ6Q3D7544SNWQ5DRFZA

Molly adjusted the brim of her hat, peering through the binoculars at the brightly decorated backyard across the street. Balloons, streamers, and a garish piñata shaped like a unicorn swayed gently in the breeze. A group of sugared-up seven-year-olds shrieked as they whacked it with a stick. "Well?" Bill whispered, crouched beside her behind the hydrangea bush. "What’s the sit-rep?" Molly lowered the binoculars and smirked. "Minimal security. One exhausted mom, two dads arguing about barbecue techniques, and a clown who looks like he’s rethinking every life choice that led him here." Bill rubbed his hands together. "Perfect. We get in, grab the gifts, and vanish before anyone notices." "Assuming you don’t trip over your own feet like last time," Molly said, flicking a ladybug off her sleeve. Bill scowled. "That fire alarm was *not* my fault. The guard sneezed." "Uh-huh. Listen, this is a tight window. Presents are stacked near the slide, behind the cake table. We distract the adults, grab the loot, and exit via the alley. Quick, clean, no clown-related casualties." Bill nodded sagely. "What’s the play for the clown?" Molly grinned. "Throw confetti in his face and yell *’Surprise!’* Works every time." Bill pulled a handful of glitter from his pocket. "Always prepared." They moved in sync, slinking toward the fence as the clown juggled neon bowling pins with the enthusiasm of a man awaiting his parole hearing. Molly vaulted over the fence with practiced ease; Bill belly-flopped onto the grass. Molly sighed. "Graceful." "Strategic," Bill wheezed, coughing up a dandelion. They blended into the chaos, Molly snagging a party hat and shoving it onto Bill’s head. "Act natural." "Does this make me look like a toddler?" "Yes, but in a robbery, that’s an advantage." They sidled toward the gift table, where a tower of brightly wrapped boxes teetered precariously. Bill’s eyes gleamed. "Jackpot. Legos, action figures—maybe even a gift card." A shrill voice piped up behind them. "Are you here for the *magic show*?" They turned to find a tiny girl in a tutu holding a half-eaten cupcake, chocolate smeared across her face like war paint. Molly plastered on a smile. "Uh. Yes. Absolutely. Big magic fans." Bill nodded. "Love pulling things out of hats." The girl squinted. "You’re not parents." "Obviously not," Bill said. "We’re the—uh—*entertainment.*" Molly elbowed him. "Cool!" The girl grabbed their hands. "You *gotta* meet Mr. Bubbles!" Before they could protest, she dragged them toward the clown, whose painted smile dropped the second he saw them. Molly muttered under her breath, "*Abort.*" Bill nodded, already backpedaling—right into the cake table. The tower of presents swayed. The clown’s eyes widened. Then, in glorious slow motion, the gifts toppled onto Bill, burying him in wrapping paper and bows. The party went silent. Molly froze. Then, with perfect comedic timing, the piñata exploded, showering everyone in candy. The tiny girl gasped. "*Best. Party. Ever.*" The clown pointed at Molly, his voice a ragged whisper. "Who *are* you people?" Molly snatched a gift bag, grabbed Bill’s ankle, and yanked him free. "Magicians," she said. Then, under her breath: *"Run."* They bolted, the sound of children cheering and a clown swearing in Portuguese fading behind them.