Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ3EEFMV1HAY18V0442FRD

The neon glow of the *Happy Birthday, Timmy!* sign flickered through the miniblinds of the abandoned ice cream truck Molly had “borrowed” for surveillance. Inside, the air smelled like stale sprinkles and bad decisions. Bill adjusted his party hat—*stolen from a dollar store, naturally*—and squinted at the sprawling McMansion across the street, where a horde of sugar-crazed eight-year-olds were currently turning a bounce house into a war zone. “You ever think about how weird it is that we’re about to rob a bunch of kids?” Bill mused, peeling the wrapper off a lollipop he’d found wedged between the seats. Molly didn’t look up from her blueprint—a crayon-smeared napkin she’d swiped from the host’s trash can. “First of all, we’re not robbing *kids*. We’re robbing *parents*. Rich ones. The kind who buy their offspring iPads instead of, I dunno, *love*.” “Fair. But what if one of them starts crying? I can’t handle kid tears. Last time I saw a toddler bawl, I gave him my wallet just to make it stop.” Molly sighed and tossed a handful of glitter confetti at him. “Then don’t make eye contact. Stick to the plan: I distract the adults with my *charming* small talk, you swap the present table with the fake one we built, and we’re out before the piñata gets whacked.” Bill chewed thoughtfully. “What if someone notices the fake table’s made of cardboard and duct tape?” “Then we blame the clown.” “The *what* now?” Molly pointed at the front yard, where a man in a rainbow wig was currently getting pelted with water balloons. “That guy. He’s already public enemy number one. If anything goes wrong, we say *he* did it. Classic misdirection.” Bill rubbed his temples. “You realize we’re basing our entire alibi on a guy who’s currently eating a handful of confetti like it’s cereal, right?” “Details.” Molly checked her watch—a gaudy thing she’d lifted from a retirement home bingo night. “Five minutes till cake time. That’s our window. The parents will be too busy filming their little darlings smearing frosting on their faces to notice us.” Bill adjusted his fake name tag—*Hi! I’m Dave! (Party Staff!)*—and winced as it immediately fell off. “I still think we should’ve gone with the vent route. Less people, less chaos.” “And more chance of getting stuck like a raccoon in a chimney. No thanks.” Molly cracked her knuckles. “Besides, chaos is our friend. Ever tried stealing a room full of gifts while thirty kids are hyped up on Funfetti? It’s like shoplifting during a mosh pit.” Bill groaned. “I miss the good old days, when we just robbed banks like normal criminals.” “Banks have *security*. Kids have *goldfish memories*. Now move the truck closer before I start questioning your commitment to this operation.” Bill saluted with his lollipop. “Yes, ma’am. But if we get caught, I’m telling the cops you forced me into this with the promise of unlimited juice boxes.” Molly grinned. “Deal. Now let’s go ruin Timmy’s birthday.”