Run: 2026-03-03-01KJV021P6K2QVKRHYCYJD13V4

The tinted Kia Sportage idled across the street from the suburban party, its AC blowing lukewarm air. Bill stared through the tinted windows at the backyard, where a giant inflatable unicorn bobbed above a picnic table piled high with wrapped presents, and toddlers chased a balloon tied to a lawn chair. He fumbled with a crumpled face paint kit, his hands shaking so hard a neon orange stick snapped in half. “What if a toddler recognizes me?” he whisper-yelled, voice cracking. “I was the guy who crashed a birthday piñata last month with a rogue tricycle.” Molly prodded a can of silly string with a ballpoint pen, eyes fixed on the patio mom in a frumpy birthday sash. “You wore a cowboy hat that day. No one remembers the cowboy who hit a piñata with a tricycle. They remember the caterer who forgot the cupcakes. Shut up and listen.” Bill whimpered, dropping the broken stick on the van’s floor mat. “What if the dog barks? That golden retriever’s staring right at me.” “The dog’s got a stuffed squirrel the size of your torso,” Molly said, tossing him a cheese puff tin. “He’ll drool on that instead of alerting anyone. Here’s the plan: I show up five minutes late, lie about getting stuck at the grocery store’s frozen pizza melt contest—prepped a photo of my third-place trophy for backup. I distract the mom while you slip through the side gate, grab all the presents by the picnic table, and haul ’em to the van. No petting the dog, no stealing the cake, no stepping on Lego. Last heist you stabbed your boot and we walked three miles to ditch the evidence.” Bill popped a cheese puff, crinkling the tin so loud Molly glared. “Wait, what if the birthday kid gives me a gift? My apartment already has three glow-in-the-dark dinosaurs.” “This isn’t about keeping the gifts,” Molly said, scrolling her phone. “These parents spent $60 on a cookie cake and $120 on a single stuffed bear. They’ll replace a $20 truck before lunch. We sell ’em to a thrift store that donates most to kids’ charities—we just take a tiny cut for gas.” Bill’s eyes lit up. “Most of it?” “Shut up,” Molly said, checking her watch. “Two minutes. You’re my trainee: quiet, holds supplies, nods a lot. Don’t talk unless I say. And don’t stare at kids’ stickers. Not worth the attention.” Bill stared at his van-mirror reflection, smearing hot pink paint across his cheek. “I look like a cotton candy zombie.” “Perfect,” Molly said, grabbing her face paint bag and stepping out. Her clogs clicked on the sidewalk as she waved at the party mom like they’d already met. Bill took a deep breath, stuffed the remaining cheese puffs in his fanny pack, and dragged himself toward the side gate. He tripped over a curb, sent dust flying, froze when a toddler glanced over, then ducked behind a hedge. Molly’s voice carried over the yard: “Sorry I’m late! The frozen pizza melt contest ran way over—someone burned their slice so bad it set off the smoke alarm!” Bill snickered, wiping sweat from his forehead, and inched toward the gate, already mentally counting how many wrapped boxes he could haul to the van in sixty seconds.