Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTZW7W73Q07TAHRZHXES0TW

Molly propped her elbow on the dash of her dented 1998 minivan, staring through the windshield at the suburban backyard strung with tattered fairy lights. The birthday party was winding down, the last of the kids herded inside by frazzled parents, and wrapped presents stacked high on a weathered wooden picnic table. “Target’s clear. Mom just loaded the leftover pizza—we’ve 90 seconds before she comes back for her coat.” Bill slumped in the passenger seat, picking at the frayed edge of his ratty pirate costume, the plastic eye patch slipping off his forehead for the third time. “You said two minutes last time, and we almost got nailed by a dad swinging a piñata bat. What if a kindergartener sees us and screams?” Molly reached over, yanking the eye patch back into place with a sharp, irritated tug. “Calm down. The only kid outside is the birthday girl, snot-crying over a popped unicorn balloon. She won’t notice a thing. Grab this.” She handed him a beat-up canvas grocery bag and a crumpled cat-doodled napkin scavenged from the party’s craft table. “Tape this over your patch—no one’ll recognize you. Saw a guy do this at the grocery store last week.” Bill unfolded the napkin, squinting before taping it lopsidedly over his eye patch. “This napkin looks stupid. What if we get caught? Our heist resume’s just tailgate cooler theft, sidewalk chalk borrowing, and hiding from a Chihuahua for 45 minutes. This is the dumbest one yet.” “Our cooler heist made $42, which paid for your gas,” Molly retorted, grabbing her own canvas bag and hopping out of the van. “Stay close. We run to the table, grab as much as we can, bolt back to the van. No pocketing loot—especially that tiny Pokémon card I spotted tucked under the table edge.” Bill hesitated for half a second before jumping out, tripping over a curb and sending his bag flying open, a stuffed rabbit tumbling out before he snatched it back. “Whoops,” he mumbled, yanking the bag shut so fast the napkin slipped a little. They crept toward the backyard fence, Bill glancing over his shoulder every other step. A voice called from the back porch: “Lisa? Extra party napkins?” Molly pressed Bill down behind a thorny rose bush as the party mom’s sneakers scuffed the grass. When the footsteps faded, she whispered, “Now!” They darted across the lawn, Bill tripping over a popsicle-sticky sprinkler and fumbling to keep his bag from splitting open, a rubber duck tumbling out mid-run. Molly grabbed four wrapped boxes, her fingers brushing a sparkly unicorn backpack priced high enough to cover their last three heists combined. They skidded back behind the bush, panting, as the van’s passenger door squeaked open behind them.