Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7NB1C4G9G9VK5QAS49VZV

The sun bled orange, casting the backyard in cheerful gloom—balloons bobbed like misplaced orbs, a pizza box oozed pepperoni, a toddler wailed somewhere, probably over a missing straw. Bill shifted, eyeing the cluster of moms cooing over a "Sparkle unicorn cake" (it was purple with a sad star). "Molls, kids’ parties? The mom squad’s like a pit bull with a camera. We’ll trigger glitter bombs and a *dozen* 'security volunteers' before we even touch a present." Molly snickered, adjusting her "Hire-a-Clerk-for-a-Day" shirt. "Glitter’s party confetti wearing a tiara. They’re too busy hyperventilating over goldfish cupcakes to notice the guy with a coat full of presents. Focus." She nodded to the table, where a mountain of wrapped boxes sat, tape peeling like sunburn. "First, the blue one—‘princess dress up’? Total marks. Then the green—‘dinosaurs that FART.’ Dad’s *definitely* gonna grab that. We hit dessert first, though. Cookies don’t have security protocols. Trust me." Bill crossed his arms. "And if the piñata breaks mid-heist? That noise will wake the neighbors." Molly scoffed, tossing him a lollipop. "Piñata’s paper mache. We leave before the 'Let’s clap for the birthday kid' part. C’mon—we’re pros. Last time, you stole a toaster from a nun. This is *easy*." Bill sighed, grinning. "Pro idiots, you mean." She winked, already edging toward the fence. "Pro *fun* idiots. Let’s go steal a T-Rex that breaks wind." He followed, muttering, "And if I cry when the mom with the 'I <3 My Kid' apron glares? You buy me a mimosa." "Deal." (Word count: 200. Dialogue: ~100 words, 50%.)