Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTY9533275BHQ8SDFAX2Z9T

The dented 2008 Honda Civic idled across the street from the split-level ranch, where a neon pink bounce house billowed in the backyard and the trill of “Baby Shark” blared from a portable speaker propped on the fence. Bill hunched over the dash, twisting a crumpled latex glove until its fingertips poked through like overstuffed worm holes, his eyes fixed on the stack of wrapped presents piled by the back porch. “Molls, I swear if you make me dress up as a party clown again I’m bailing,” Bill said, picking at a loose thread on his sweatpants. “Last time at the school craft fair a toddler glued a glittery foam letter ‘B’ to my forehead and wouldn’t let go for two hours while I tried to sell glue sticks.” Molly tossed a mismatched rubber glove across the dash, her grin sharp and confident as she tapped a photo of the gift table on her phone. “Relax. We’re not clowns. We’re church youth group cleanup volunteers. See? I even made us name tags.” She held up a crumpled sheet of paper with ‘Jim’ scrawled on one line and ‘Tim’ on the other, the letters wobbly from being drawn with a broken crayon. Bill snatched the glove, fumbling to pull it on over his chewed-up thumbnail. “Church youth group? What’s the church going to say when they find out we used their brand to steal kids’ birthday presents?” “Nothing, because they won’t find out,” Molly said, leaning forward to squint at the backyard. “The plan: we walk up, tell the mom we’re here to haul away leftover party supplies—specifically the gift table presents—and deliver them to the shut-ins down the street. She’ll be too busy shoving a slice of chocolate cake into her toddler’s face to question us.” Bill glanced past the bounce house, where a balloon-animal clown was twisting a unicorn shape for a cluster of screaming kids. “What about the balloon guy? He’s staring right at us.” Molly squinted, then snickered. “That’s not staring, that’s just bad peripheral vision. Wait, no—he’s asking for a cash tip! Perfect, he’ll be occupied for ten minutes at least. Grab the duffel.” Bill grabbed the frayed canvas duffel from the floor, his hands shaking so bad the bag sloshed against his knees. “What if a cop shows up? What if the kid who got the Lego Millennium Falcon cries when it’s gone? What if—” “Moll? Bill?” A woman’s voice cut through the cartoon song, and both of them froze. The party mom stood at the edge of the sidewalk, holding a Tupperware of sugar cookies. Molly recovered first, leaning out the window with a bright, too-big smile. “Uh, hey! We’re from the local church youth group, we were wondering if you had extra sprinkles? Our senior center potluck cake forgot ’em!” Bill blinked, then scrambled to nod in agreement, waving the duffel like he was holding a serving tray. “Yeah! Sprinkles. Lots of ’em. For the cake.” The mom laughed, holding up the Tupperware. “I actually brought these sugar cookies instead! Want a few?” Before either of them could reply, a high-pitched scream ripped from the backyard: “THE CAKE’S GONE! THE DOG AT THE NEIGHBOR’S HOUSE ATE THE CAKE!” Molly slammed the Civic’s door shut, grabbing Bill’s arm and yanking him across the lawn. “Duplicate presents! We’ll swap ’em for duplicates before anyone notices! Move!” Bill stumbled behind her, the duffel slamming against his hips as they darted past the bounce house, the balloon clown yelling something about a missing unicorn balloon fading behind them.