Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFCMWVDCD5SWZ9PXXB3THWY

The sun dipped low over the cul-de-sac, painting the Simpsons’ driveway bounce house neon pink, the tinny blare of Baby Shark seeping through the open kitchen window to sting Molly and Bill’s eardrums as they hunched behind an overgrown hydrangea bush. Crumbs of the convenience store burritos they’d split for lunch stuck to Molly’s canvas ski mask, Bill’s half-laced work boot kicked a loose rock into a sprinkler that sputtered cold water up his stolen pizza delivery jacket’s cuff. Molly’s fanny pack jingled with lockpicks she’d swiped from a hardware store the week prior, the only successful heist either had pulled off all year. A group of kids sprinted past the bush chasing a golden retriever, a fizzing sparkler narrowly missing Molly’s ponytail, and she tugged her ski mask up to snap at Bill. “Quit squirming, we got a 12 minute window before the mom brings out the unicorn cake and all the kids cluster around the dining room. That leaves the present pile by the front closet unguarded. Un. Guarded.” Bill wiped water from his cheek, tugging his own ski mask further down over his nose, his voice dropping to a panicked hiss. “Wait, unguarded? I thought we had to distract the teenaged TikTok-scrolling babysitter on the porch? What happened to that fake Amazon package plan with the whoopee cushion? You made me wrap that stupid thing for three hours.” “The babysitter bailed. Left 20 minutes ago for a Harry Styles concert movie, I watched her sprint to her Honda Civic with a glow stick around her neck. Only adults left in there is Mrs. Simpson and her sister who’s spent the last hour crying in the hot tub about her ex-husband. She can’t tell a balloon from a lawn gnome, let alone two professional thieves hauling a garbage bag full of Lego sets and LOL dolls.” “Professional? Molly, last month we tried to steal avocados from Trader Joe’s and you tripped over a toddler and set off the door alarm twice. We’re not professional, we’re the only two idiots dumb enough to heist a 7-year-old’s birthday. What if some kid bites me? I heard 7-year-olds bite like feral raccoons when their swag is on the line.” “Quit being dramatic, we’ll walk in like the out-of-town aunt and uncle, compliment the balloon arch, grab the presents, load ’em into our minivan, sell the whole lot on Facebook Marketplace for three months’ rent. No one’s gonna question random adults at a kids’ party, half the guests are people Mrs. Simpson invited ‘cause she felt bad for them. Wait—” Molly froze, squinting at the front door, where a man in a USPS uniform hauled a black garbage bag stuffed to bursting to his truck. Bill followed her gaze, then winced. “Is that the lonely mailman?”