Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8W5J47YZHHTE25BBY7BJ4

The sun hung low over the subdivision, painting the sky the kind of pink that makes small children gasp and adults reach for their phones. Bill propped a half-eaten hot dog on a stick between his thumb and forefinger, squinting at the backyard through a pair of binoculars he’d stolen from a hardware store last Tuesday. “There,” he said, poking Molly in the ribs with the sausage. “See that white tent? Fifth present on the left—princess dress-up. Sparkles. Diamonds. Probably a tiara big enough to hide a small laptop in.” Molly swatted the binoculars away, her sneakers scuffing a patch of clover. “Sparkles don’t pay the bills, Bill. They’re *presents*. Pointy-eared brats and sugar crashes don’t keep us in stale bagels and bad decisions. We need the time capsule.” Bill let the hot dog drop into the grass, as if the very idea of a time capsule were a personal insult. “The *what*?” Molly leaned in, her voice conspiratorial. “The party’s got a ‘10-Year Nostalgia Tent’—parents dump their kid’s first-grade mementos in there. Last year, I heard a mom say there were *baseball cards* from 1997 in there. 1997! That’s two years before I was born, so everyone will assume some rando took them. Classic.” She paused, squinting at a nearby swing set where a toddler was *screaming* into a popsicle. “And the cake. The cake is a problem. It’s shaped like a castle, but it’s *red velvet* and covered in *actual* buttercream. Kids will be too busy face-planting into it to notice their presents are vanishing. We just need to… *redirect* their attention.” Bill snickered, unbuttoning his flannel to reveal a neon green clown shirt he’d bought at a goodwill store. “Redirect? Last month, we tried to ‘redirect’ a guy at a grocery store who was buying cat food. We ended up chasing a golden retriever out of the parking lot. You remember that, right?” “Chasing a *retriever* was a *tactical error*,” Molly said, slapping a blue sequined vest over her shirt. “This time, we’re clowns. Red noses, oversized shoes—” “Oversized shoes? What if I step on Mr. Jenkins’ garden hose again? Last time, he saw me in those things and called the cops.” “Then we’ll tell him we’re *forensic clowns*. Looking for evidence of… *sugar-related mischief*.” Molly adjusted her red nose, squinting at her reflection in a nearby fence. It made her look cross-eyed. “Now, the plan: I’ll ‘accidentally’ drop a whoopee cushion on the cake. Bill, you’ll ‘help’ clean it up—trips, talks to the kids, gets them to ‘help’ you with ‘balloon animals.’ While they’re all distracted, I’ll grab the presents from the table, stuff them into this backpack—” She held up a neon pink school bag with a unicorn on it. “—and meet you by the oak tree in five minutes. Got it?” Bill nodded, already testing the weight of the backpack. “Got it. Just… try not to panic when the baby starts crying. Last time a baby cried, you tried to ‘rock’ it, and it spit up on your clown hat. You still have that thing, by the way.” Molly’s nose quivered. “That was a *spit-up incident*, and you know it. And for the record, the baby was *adorable*. Anyway, remember the ‘10-Year Nostalgia Tent’? Inside, second shelf, blue box. The good stuff is in there. Now go—” “Wait,” Bill said, pulling a lollipop from his pocket and popping it into his mouth. “What if we get caught? What if the dad has a gun? What if—” “Bill,” Molly said, deadpan, “the dad is wearing a ‘Future NASCAR Champion’ jersey and has a GoPro stuck to his hat. He’s too busy filming his kid’s ‘epic cake face’ to notice a clown stealing presents. Now *move*. The hot dog guy’s giving me ‘the look.’” Bill shrugged, shouldering the backpack. He paused at the fence, then wheeled around. “Oh, and Molly? If we get caught, I’m blaming you. You’re the one who said ‘forensic clowns.’” Molly rolled her eyes, already untying the rope that held back the tent flap. “And I’m blaming you if you step on another hose. Now go.” Bill slipped into the yard, tripping over a plastic flamingo and knocking a punch bowl over. A toddler looked up, grinned, and pointed. “Clown! Clown!” Bill winked, brandishing the lollipop like a sword. “Ice cream! Vanilla! Want one?” The toddler shrieked and buried her face in her mom’s lap. Bill turned, grinning, and mouthed, “Tactical success.” Molly snorted, slipping into the tent moments later. Somewhere, a caller ID beeped. Bill looked at the flamingo, then back at the house, and shrugged. “Hey, it worked for *Adventure Time*.” The party began to clap. Molly emerged two minutes later, the blue box in one hand, the unicorn backpack over her shoulder. Bill was already “performing” a balloon snake that looked suspiciously like a dead rat. “Let’s go,” Molly said, checking her watch. “The principal just texted—she’s bringing the ‘parent of the year’ award, which means she’ll be gone for *at least* 10 minutes. And I, for one, refuse to watch her cry over a store-bought trophy.” Bill saluted, the dead rat balloon drooping. “Aye, aye, Captain Clown.” They ducked behind a tree as a chorus of “OOOOH”s erupted from the tent.远处，一只知更鸟开始唱歌。阳光似乎更明亮了。 “Wait,” Bill said, pausing. “Did we take the cake? The *actual* cake? Because the red velvet—” Molly kicked him in the shin. “—is *worth something*,” Bill finished, grinning. Molly sighed, but she was grinning too. “Next time, Bill. Next time.” They melted into the sidewalk, leaving the party to its sugar high and the flamingo to its orange plastic legs. In the distance, the baby from earlier laughed. Somewhere, a clock chimed six. And for once, nothing went wrong. Sort of.