Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY83GPXMQDGAFKRJY93MXTX

The dented van idled across from the community center, its windows plastered with crumpled party flyers to blend in. Molly twisted a neon toy crowbar between her fingers—she’d swiped it from a dollar store to avoid scaring crying kids mid-heist—while squinting at the stream of balloon-toting toddlers filing inside. Bill leaned over the steering wheel, his notebook open to a scribbled map of the party’s gift stations: a stack by the cake table, a bin by the craft corner, and a hidden cache behind the piñata stand. He paused, then glanced at Molly. That piñata delay could mess our tight 3:15 gift-snatch window. Molly’s jaw tightened; she’d spent three nights practicing her “harried party parent” accent to bluff past the clown chaperone. Bill nudged her with a crumpled balloon animal he’d made earlier. Relax—we’ll distract the clown with a fake balloon emergency. She huffed, tucking the toy crowbar into her fanny pack and checking her watch—2:47. She scanned the back door, where a propped screen wiggled in the breeze, and adjusted her frilly party hat (swiped from a mailbox). Bill flipped his notebook to a list of fake kid names he’d memorized, muttering about avoiding the cookie break that would draw all adults to the cake table, leaving the gift bins unguarded for their quick snatch-and-run.