Run: 2026-03-09-01KKABVYEQC48DYZ0NVQ81GB6G

Molly studied the suburban battlefield from behind a hedge shaped like a startled dolphin. Beyond it, balloons bobbed over the garden gate, a clown assembled animals with the grim focus of a tax auditor, and sugared children pinballed across the lawn. Bill lay beside her in a caterer’s jacket stolen from a man still chasing his van three streets away. He unfolded the party map, which was really a napkin bearing jelly stains and one confident arrow. “Bill, we nick presents, not hostages,” Molly whispered. “Fine. In, grab, out. Smile if photographed,” Bill muttered. The target table sagged under a mountain of wrapped boxes, each tagged in looping handwriting and guarded only by a grandmother with opera glasses and the instincts of a prison warden. Molly adjusted her paper hat disguise, which read HAPPY 6TH, and felt professionally insulted by the level of security. A magician was sawing a sponge rabbit in half; this, she noted, might prove useful. Bill produced a confetti cannon, a gravy ladle, and two juice boxes. At the birthday song’s first shriek, they vaulted the hedge, looking less like criminal masterminds than very determined substitute uncles. Nobody noticed the loot trolley was actually a stroller.