Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFBQJ1MTHG0QX48NPXB52W8

Crouched in a thorny rose bush at the edge of a suburban cul-de-sac, Bill and Molly adjusted their ill-fitting ski masks, Bill’s slipping repeatedly over his eyes to leave him squinting through a single hole crusted with Cheeto dust. They’d tangled themselves in three stray pinwheel streamers trekking across the front lawn, and Molly’s crowbar—bought that morning for twenty bucks at a gas station hardware bin—leaned forgotten against a fire hydrant two blocks away, too bulky to sneak past a crew of bike-riding ten-year-olds that circled the block ten minutes prior. Through plastic toy binoculars pilfered from a last week’s birthday goodie bag, Molly counted the stack of presents by the back porch: half-unopened Lego sets, a life-sized stuffed unicorn, a 5-gallon bucket of glitter slime still in its shipping box. The only guard was a golden retriever puppy, passed out in a pile of cupcake wrappers, its snout smeared with blue frosting. Bill’s voice piped up, muffled by his mask: “We gonna go in before the piñata breaks?” Molly elbowed him hard in the ribs, hissing back: “Relax, the clown’s still napping in his van.”