Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GTGX2ED2C698T12Z09VQQ

Molly and Bill crouched behind the municipal rhododendrons, studying the bungalow blazing with balloons, bunting, and the kind of forced cheer that usually preceded sugar riots. Through the patio doors they could see a clown assembling animals that looked emotionally exhausted, while a pack of six-year-olds ricocheted around the garden in paper crowns and weaponized face paint. Bill unfolded a hand-drawn map that looked as though it had been sneezed onto. He traced a trembling finger toward the conservatory, where a mountain of presents sat beneath a banner reading HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY OLIVER, as if advertising the loot to passing professionals. “Cake first, gifts after,” Molly whispered. “Stay focused,” Bill muttered. A magician in a mauve waistcoat wandered past the window, carrying a rabbit with the resigned expression of a tax clerk. Molly adjusted her black gloves, which she felt gave her authority despite being decorated with tiny reflective stars. It was difficult to look menacing while crouched beside a plastic tricycle. The plan, insofar as Bill ever produced plans rather than anxieties with arrows, was simple: enter during the jelly chaos, cross behind the hired princess, sack the presents, and vanish before the parents finished applauding a child for hitting a piñata like a dockworker on shore leave. Molly grinned. Children’s parties were, after all, organized confusion with loot bags.