Run: 2026-03-03-01KJV01W99956Y27ZDAPDA9SHK

Molly and Bill crouched shoulder to shoulder behind the overgrown privet hedge lining the Miller’s sun-dappled driveway, prickly leaves sticking through the knees of their frayed jeans. Inside, toddler laughter bounced off the siding, paired with a tinny Baby Shark karaoke machine blaring on loop. Bill clutched a glitter-strewn party horn in his jacket pocket, sneezing into it every few seconds, eyes watering. Molly’s fanny pack held lock picks, a spare glove, and a stolen whoopee cushion; she tapped it to quiet her twitchy partner. “Put the horn away,” Molly hissed, eyes locked on the sliding glass back door. “You’re reminding me of the bank heist where you blew a party horn mid-job and scared the teller into slamming a stapler.” Bill yelped, yanking the horn out. “This is my lucky heist charm! The glitter’s messing with my sinuses. My red clown hat disguise? No one’ll suspect a part-time party helper.” Molly squinted at the crumpled foam hat poking out of his pocket, coffee-stained brim visible. “That hat looks like a kid lost it under a park bench. You’re less ‘disguise’ and more ‘wanted poster with a typo.’” Bill huffed, shoving the hat back. “Fine, what’s your master plan, smarty-pants?” “Simple,” Molly whispered, nodding at wrapped presents stacked by the fireplace, visible through the fogged glass. “The dad’s dressed like a knockoff Captain Marvel, guarding the gift table. Trip over that neon pink scooter by the steps to make him turn, then sit on the whoopee cushion next to him. He’ll rush to help, and I’ll slip in, grab every present under three feet tall, meet you by the trash cans at the end of the street.” Bill paled. “What if he recognizes me? I bought oat milk here last week and spilled my latte on self-checkout.” “Shut up, he wore a sparkly cape, he wasn’t staring at the oat-milk guy,” Molly snapped, nudging his elbow. “We’re not stealing—we’re rescuing. Those stuffed unicorns and crayon sets have better lives with us than a 7-year-old who’ll toss them in a toy box and forget them.” Bill wiped his runny nose on his sleeve. “Rescuing. Got it. What if the karaoke machine dies?” Before Molly could answer, the Baby Shark chorus cut off mid-verse. A toddler’s confused wail drifted through the window. Both went rigid, holding their breath until a giggle followed: a kid chased a butterfly onto the hedge, darting back toward the house before they could be spotted. Molly checked her watch, gesturing for Bill to follow as they crept toward the house’s side. “Come on. Rescue mission’s in three… two…”