Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ95D0KYKVFPJHFVPYHWJD9C

Target at twelve o'clock, Bill. The bounce house is fully inflated. This is the point of no return. Molly peered through her binoculars, her eyes narrowed as she watched a clown unload a crate of balloons. I don't know, Molly, Bill whispered, his hands trembling as he adjusted his tactical belt. He's turning six. Six-year-olds are feral. I’ve seen them take down a piñata like a pack of wolves on a wounded caribou. It haunts my dreams. Focus. The gift table is positioned in the northwest corner of the rumpus room. It is proximal to the cake, but safely outside the splash zone of the chocolate fountain. A chocolate fountain? We didn’t account for a high-viscosity liquid trap. That is a level four hazard. My shoes are suede, Molly. Genuine suede. Adjust your goggles and quit whining. We enter through the dog flap. Once inside, we utilize the strawberry-scented smoke pellets and clear the table in under sixty seconds. We have to be ghosts, Bill. Ghostly shadows among the Capri Suns. What if the clown sees us? I am telling you, Bubbles the Entertainer is a loose cannon. I saw him folding a balloon animal into a shiv earlier. Bubbles is a professional, Bill. He will not talk. It is the mothers you have to watch out for. They haven’t slept since the mid-2010s and they can smell fear and low-fat snacks from a mile away. I am wearing the cargo pants with the extra pockets for the Lego sets. Do you think I should have gone with the overalls? For maximum box capacity? Too much drag. We need to be aerodynamic. Did you pack the snack-sized diversions? I have the organic fruit leathers and the silenced bubble guns. But the security is tighter than we thought. They have a golden retriever patrolling the perimeter. Barnaby? He is a double agent. I paid him off with a strip of premium beef jerky this morning. He will give us the signal. What is the signal? One bark for all clear, two barks if the birthday boy starts crying, and a low growl if the grandmother starts handing out raisins. Raisins are the silent killer of any operation. Why are we doing this again? The pawn shop will not even take half this stuff. I tried to move a plastic kitchen set last week and got laughed out of the building. Because, Bill, there is a limited edition, glow-in-the-dark, intergalactic robot in that pile. It is worth three grand on the black market. Everything else is just collateral. The juice boxes have been spiked with sugar-free minerals to induce a mild lethargy. But what about the cake? Can we take the cake? It is a three-tier dinosaur theme. The triceratops looks delicious. Negative. The cake is bait. If we stop for icing, we are compromised. Stick to the plan. I think I see a tricycle patrol. Three toddlers on trikes. They look organized. They have juice boxes strapped to their belts like tactical gear. Amateurs. Give them a handful of glitter and they will turn on each other in seconds. Check your watch. We move when the Happy Birthday chorus hits the second bridge. The bridge? There is no bridge in Happy Birthday. There is if the aunt is a theater major. Trust me, we will have a window of exactly forty-five seconds while everyone is trying to hit the high note. I am putting on the mask now. Does the bunny look intimidating? It looks haunting, Bill. Now, check the grapple hook. Is it attached to the sippy cup launcher? Locked and loaded. Then let us move. If I get tackled by a guy in a Spider-Man suit, you keep running. Don't look back for me. I was already planning on it, Bill said, opening the van door.