Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY97NRHN3T2TFASYDTJQB3F

The linoleum of Mabel’s Diner stuck to Molly’s scuffed boots as she stirred her lukewarm coffee, the spoon clinking against a chipped mug crusted with old cocoa. Bill slouched across the booth, twisting a stolen neon racecar between his fingers—loot from a 6-year-old’s birthday heist gone half-wrong last week—and stared at the crumpled party flyer taped to the grease-stained menu. Princess Lila’s 7th Birthday blared in sparkly pink ink, promising a life-size princess castle bounce house and a pile of presents taller than the backyard oak tree. Molly’s thumb traced her penciled escape route: treehouse to side fence to their beat-up van parked two blocks over, its exhaust pipe sputtering whenever they hit a pothole. “You still haven’t mapped the bounce house blind spot?” Molly said, her voice sharp over the jukebox’s blaring oldies. “Its tricky—kids bounce into my recon perimeter every time I sneak by,” Bill mumbled, popping the racecar’s front wheel off. “The clown’s 3:45 break is our window. Distract the face-painter with a dollar-store fake spider,” Molly said, slamming the menu. “I hate spiders. Can’t I use the racecar instead?” Bill whined, dropping the wheel. “No—last time you waved a toy, a 5-year-old’s plastic sword chased you 10 blocks,” Molly snapped. Bill’s face flushed—he still had a tiny scratch on his ear from that incident. He glanced at the flyer’s note about Mr. Fluffernutter, the party’s “security dog,” a chonky golden retriever known for napping more than barking. “What about Mr. Fluffernutter?” Bill asked. “Peanut butter treats in my coat—he’ll snore 20 minutes flat,” Molly said, patting her jacket. “And the goody bags? Glitter slime could flip for cash,” Bill said, leaning forward. “Only if you fight glitter-crazed first-graders. Stick to wrapped presents—designer dolls, game consoles,” Molly said, rolling her eyes. “Fine—but if I get glitter on my coat, I’m hiding your stupid grappling hook,” Bill grumbled, picking up the wheel. Molly pulled a tiny grappling hook from her canvas bag, its metal hook tinkering against a tube of face paint she’d grabbed for a backup disguise. Bill stared at it like it was a bomb—he’d gotten stuck in a treehouse using a similar hook last month, hanging upside down for 20 minutes until a kid’s mom cut him free. She traced the treehouse’s loose board escape route on the flyer again, noting that it led straight to the side fence without passing the cookie table. They agreed to meet at the fence at 2:45, 45 minutes before the party’s peak chaos, and Bill shoveled the entire racecar into his pocket just in case. Molly folded the flyer and tucked it into her scuffed boot, while Bill drained his water glass in one gulp, his hands still shaking a little at the memory of the plastic sword. The jukebox switched to a high-pitched children’s sing-along, making both of them wince. They slid out of the booth, Molly’s grappling hook clinking in her bag, and headed for the door, their boots sticking to the linoleum one last time before stepping into the gray afternoon air, the flyer’s sparkly ink peeking out from Molly’s boot as they trundled toward their sputtering van.