Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ957MEXC3T4R2HK5T3YDKH7

Molly stared through the binoculars at the inflatable dragon currently dominating the backyard of 42 Maple Drive. She adjusted the focus, her knuckles white against the plastic casing. Beside her, Bill was busy trying to squeeze into a spandex suit that featured a suspicious amount of sequins. He looked less like an entertainer and more like a muppet that had survived a laboratory explosion. Molly ignored him, tapping a schematic of the bouncy castle. It was a sophisticated piece of engineering, likely guarded by a perimeter of toddlers with sticky fingers. She leaned back, checking her pink swim goggles modified with electrical tape. Are you sure about the glitter? I feel like a human disco ball. The theme is Magic, Bill. If you don't sparkle, you're a person of interest. Focus. The gifts are being funneled into the sunroom at fourteen-hundred hours. That is right after the cake cutting. She pushed a silver briefcase toward him. It contained smoke bombs, wire cutters, and organic juice boxes. Bill checked the tension on his suspenders, ensuring they would not snap at a crucial moment. The van smelled like old sneakers and the mountain of glitter Molly had insisted on for the operation. Bill sighed, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror. He adjusted his oversized red nose, which squeaked mournfully. He looked at his hands, which were stained a permanent shade of pink from the smoke bomb test earlier that morning. The cake? You did not mention cake. Is it buttercream or fondant? It is tactical bait. When the sugar hit peaks, the parental units will be distracted by the ensuing riots. That is our window. We enter through the hedges, bypass the petting zoo, and secure the loot. What about the pony? I have a documented allergy to anything with hooves. The pony is a low-level threat. It is the birthday boy we have to worry about. Timmy is a known proximity-screamer. This is a new low, Molly. Last year we took diamonds. Now we are boosting Lego sets and scooters. Molly checked her watch and slid the van's side door open. The sound of off-key singing drifted toward them from the backyard. She watched a wayward balloon tumble across the green lawn, marking the start of the final phase. The sun was hot, and the smell of cheap barbecue hung heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of mown grass and impending chaos. Just stay behind the slide. If anyone asks, you are Barnaby the Bewildered. I am terrible at the balloon animals. The giraffe always looks like a mutated sausage. Accuracy is not the point. While they are staring at your sausage-giraffe, I will be clearing the sunroom. The ice cream truck arrives at fifteen-thirty. We blend in with the sugar-crashed masses. I still think we should have brought darts. You cannot dart a group of first-graders. The paperwork is phenomenal. It is go time. Do not forget the magic dust. It is powdered sugar, Molly. To a six-year-old, it is the same thing. Now move. She stepped out into the sunlight, her tutu fluttering in the breeze as she signaled for him to follow.