Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ4AEPS3JJ1MM1440QKZPK

The clown car sputtered to a stop half a block from the birthday bash, its rainbow-striped bumper sagging like a deflated whoopee cushion. Molly adjusted her polka-dot bowtie in the rearview mirror, the elastic digging into her neck like a guilty conscience. "You ever notice how clown makeup smells like regret and expired cotton candy?" she muttered, peeling a sequin from her sleeve. Bill, already halfway out the door, paused with one oversized shoe planted on the curb. "Focus, Molly. We're not here to critique the olfactory arts. We're here to liberate a mountain of Lego sets and at least one pony." He hefted the duffel bag—stenciled with the words "Happy Birthday, Timmy!" in cheerful Comic Sans—and gave it a shake. The bag clinked ominously, as if it already contained the shattered dreams of a dozen six-year-olds. Molly sighed, tucking a lock of neon-green hair behind her ear. "I still think we should've gone with the piñata distraction. Less chance of getting glitter-bombed by a vengeful toddler." "Too late for second thoughts," Bill said, adjusting his red nose. "Operation Sugar Rush is a go. Remember: we smile, we wave, we grab the loot, and we *do not* make eye contact with the magician. Last time, he turned my shoelaces into snakes." Molly groaned. "I *told* you not to heckle the guy about his disappearing act." She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the chaos of the backyard, where a dozen tiny humans were currently engaged in a high-stakes game of musical chairs. Somewhere in that whirlwind of cake crumbs and helium balloons, a fortune in unopened presents awaited. All they had to do was blend in. How hard could it be?