Run: 2026-03-03-01KJTZX832J7AH4E9AHN96ME4A

Crouched behind a scraggly forsythia hedge lining the Miller family’s backyard, Molly prodded Bill’s ribcage with a crumpled fake volunteer lanyard, the high-pitched shriek of children and thrum of a Disney bounce house blaring from the other side. The June heat had already made her bandana stick to her soot-streaked neck, and she’d lost count of how many times Bill had twisted the plastic disposable gloves stuffed in his back pocket. His neon fanny pack bulged with a roll of duct tape and a half-eaten granola bar, and he kept darting glances at a golden retriever napping at the base of the back porch steps. “You said we’d scope this by noon. It’s two o’clock, the cake’s squished in a toddler’s face, and my shoes are stickin’ to melted sidewalk syrup,” Bill grumbled, flicking a crumb off his hoodie sleeve. “Relax, the rental van’s backup generator died 10 minutes ago—everyone’s fanning themselves with paper party fans right now. We’ve got 20 minutes before the piñata splatters and the parents swarm the swing set for selfies. That’s our window,” Molly shot back, tapping the fake volunteer badge reading “Party Setup Crew” against her thigh. “Last time a kid tattled, we hid in a bookstore supply closet for 45 minutes,” Bill mumbled, kicking at a dandelion poking through the hedge. Molly snickered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “That was just a snack stop, not a heist. We’re stealing unopened Legos and fuzzy sloth stuffed animals—no one’s gonna mourn overpriced toys that’ll just get regifted next Christmas.” “What if the backyard dog wakes up? I heard him bark when the lawnmower went by,” Bill pressed, nodding toward the porch where the golden retriever twitched its ear. Molly held up a dented can of tuna she’d tucked in her jeans pocket. “Bribable. Tested him at the pet store yesterday; he’ll roll over for a single bite while we haul the presents to the van.” They’d mapped the exact route the night before: slip through the unlocked side gate (Molly had jiggled the handle through the hedge that morning, confirmed it was propped open with a lopsided potted geranium), dart up the back porch steps, grab every present stacked haphazardly by the window air conditioner, and high-tail it back to the faded white rental van parked three blocks over before anyone noticed the pile of crinkled wrapping paper was suddenly half as tall. Bill counted under his breath, his eyes locked on a cluster of kids chasing a bubble machine: “Eighteen presents through the fence—like $800 worth of stuff. What if we get pulled over on the way back?” Bill fumbled with his hoodie zipper for the third time in 10 seconds, and Molly rolled her eyes, swatting his hand away before he could get it stuck. The sound of a mom’s sharp yell cut through the backyard chaos: “Watch the piñata!” A cluster of bleary-eyed parents scrambled toward the wooden post holding the frayed rope, their cameras flashing in the sun. Molly stood up, brushing clumps of grass off her high-waisted jeans, and grabbed Bill’s wrist to yank him to his feet. “Window’s shrinking faster than a popsicle on a picnic table,” she muttered, and the pair crept along the hedge toward the gap in the fence, their sneakers quiet on the crunched gravel driveway until they reached the side gate.