Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTZBSWT782HNC8DCQW4A8QM

The beat-up 1998 Honda Civic idled across the street from Timmy Jenkins’ backyard, where a handwritten “BIRTHDAY BOY!” banner fluttered above a half-filled kiddie pool of blue plastic balls. Molly leaned across the front seat, crumpling a party flyer between her calloused fingers, while Bill fumbled with a cheap pink princess tiara perched crookedly on his buzzcut. The smell of burnt hot dogs wafted over the fence, followed by the high-pitched squeal of a toddler chasing a bubble wand. “Marked target window’s 2:15 to 2:20,” Molly said, nodding at the scrap of paper. “That’s when Bubbles the clown’s tied up making balloon dinosaurs, the birthday mom’s manning the piñata, and all the top presents — Lego sets, stuffed bears, that remote-control truck Timmy’s been begging for — are stacked in the wicker basket by the playhouse. No lock, just left out like a free lunch for thieves.” “Wait, the dog?” Bill yelped, adjusting his lopsided flannel shirt. “Mrs. Jenkins said her golden retriever, Max, is stuck in the garage behind a baby gate. I saw him through the fence earlier, he’s got a bite mark on his ear and looks like he’d chew my shoelaces off before I could grab a single present.” Molly snorts, gesturing to the glove compartment. “Peanut butter crackers under the seat. Toss one over the fence when we move in, he’ll be too busy licking crumbs off the grass to bark. I tested the tactic on a stray behind the grocery store last week; he didn’t so much as growl after I gave him a cracker.” “What if Bubbles the clown sees us?” Bill asked, tugging the tiara straight. “Last time I tried to sneak a free bagel, a chicken mascot chased me for three blocks. This clown’s gotta have worse stamina, right?” Molly rolled her eyes, flipping open a tattered spiral notebook. “Bubbles’ shift ends at 2:20, he’s got a bowling league meeting down the road. He’ll be packing his balloon kit the second we haul the basket to the van. Besides, you’re wearing the tiara. He’ll think you’re a last-minute face painter or a den mother.” “This tiara is chafing my temple!” Bill complained, prodding the plastic band. “And I don’t do face paint. Last time I tried to paint a cat for my niece, I turned her into a purple blob that cried for two hours and got my birthday cards boycotted by her entire family.” Molly passed him a pair of frayed plastic work gloves. “Wear the gloves, don’t touch anything sticky. Grab the sparkly stuffed unicorn from the trunk, too. If any tiny tots spot us, hurl it into the bushes. They’ll forget about the heist five seconds later chasing a rolling unicorn.” Bill fumbled the gloves, dropping one under the seat. “What if we get caught? What if the police show up? What if Timmy’s dad beats us with the piñata stick?” Molly checked her watch. “The piñata bursts at 2:17, right when we grab the basket. The noise will cover us hauling it to the van. If anyone asks, we’re here for the free cake samples. Now stop complaining and let’s move.” Bill adjusted the tiara again, his voice a whine. “Can I just grab one tiny cupcake? For the hassle of wearing this stupid crown?” Molly scoffed, reaching for the van door. “No. Rookie move. Now let’s go. And don’t trip over the kiddie pool.”