Run: 2026-03-03-01KJV08BFN08H0S4TSRP5PZC1K

They hunkered behind an overgrown hydrangea bush, the distant trill of a toddler’s off-key birthday song seeping through the hedge. Bill fidgeted with a half-eaten granola bar in his hoodie pocket, his eyes frequently darting to the inflatable unicorn bounce house bobbing in the sunlit driveway. “Moll, c’mon, we agreed this was a dumb idea,” Bill whispered, yanking a stray thread from his sweatshirt. “Last week you made me sneak into a church bake sale to steal cookie dough, and I still have sugar ants crawling out of my sneakers.” “Relax, Bill. I memorized the entire drop-off timeline,” Molly retorted, adjusting a pair of tacky neon sunglasses she’d swiped from a dollar bin. “The parents are all clustered by the charcoal grill between 2:15 and 2:45— that’s our window. The birthday cake gets cut at 2:30, so every adult in that driveway will be too busy oohing over the sugar rush disaster to notice us slipping in and out.” “What about the tiny kid with the blue face paint?” Bill yelped, staring at a little boy clutching a dinosaur toy who’d wandered near the bush. “He stared me down at the park last Tuesday, I swear he’s got a death grip on his action figure collection. He’ll snitch.” “Little kids don’t remember faces that don’t hand out lollipops,” Molly snorted, twirling a crumpled party invitation she’d lifted from the host’s porch earlier that day. “Besides, we’re not hurting anyone— just borrowing the fancy wrapped presents and the good toy cars. The parents have homeowner’s insurance, right? They’ll survive.” “I brought the red clown nose, like you said,” Bill mumbled, fumbling in his backpack and pulling out a crumpled foam nose. “But what if someone asks why I’m toting a reusable grocery bag full of… presents?” “Stop calling it a loot bag,” Molly hissed, swatting his hand. “Call it a party favor haul. Just act like you’re the neighbor’s teen cousin here to help clean up. And for the love of all things glitter glue, stop picking at that streamer stuck to your sleeve— someone’s gonna notice you look like a discarded piñata.” Bill’s face paled. “What if the bounce house pops? Then everyone’ll run over and catch us red-handed with a Barbie Dreamhouse stuffed in our bag.” Molly groaned. “Quit fixating on the $300 inflatable unicorn and listen. We stick to the back patio, grab every wrapped present with a bow bigger than your head, and bolt to the van before the birthday girl blows out her candles. Got it?” “I left the gummy bear bribe stash on my kitchen counter,” Bill wailed, fumbling through his backpack again. “Now what if the toddlers cry? They’ll alert their parents!” “We don’t need bribes— we just run faster than them,” Molly snapped, nodding at the portable speaker Bill had slung over his shoulder. “You brought the Baby Shark playlist, right? That’ll distract any leftover kids inside.” Bill nodded so hard his clown nose fell off. “Yep. It’s on loop. Don’t judge, it’s the only thing that can shut up a toddler faster than a parent yelling ‘no dessert’.” A high-pitched shriek cut them off mid-conversation. The birthday girl had spotted a stray cat peeking through the hydrangea leaves. Bill yelped, slamming his grab bag into the bush, sending a handful of dead blooms clattering to the ground. Molly grabbed his wrist, yanking him flat against the dirt as the mom called over, “Sweetie, it’s just a kitty— come here, honey!” Bill pressed his face into the grass, voice muffled. “Moll? I think I peed a little.” Molly sighed, shifting to glare at him over her neon sunglasses. “For the last time, Bill. Stop overreacting. This is exactly why I didn’t let you pick the emergency snack stash.”