Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFDQH416Q4VSY6NY7QA5PR0

The mid-July sun baked the back of Molly’s neck as she and Bill huddled behind an overgrown hydrangea bush two yards from the Wilsons’ backyard fence, the thrum of a kids’ birthday party loud enough to drown out their rustling hoodies. The air smelled like burnt hot dogs and synthetic cotton candy, thick enough to taste as they huddled, a stray bee buzzing around Bill’s ear that he swatted at uselessly. A neon Roblox bounce house trembled under a dozen stampeding kids, a half-broken Creeper piñata swung from the oak, and a stack of wrapped presents glowed under patio lights on the picnic table, just waiting. Bill tugged his fanny pack, bulging with what he’d called “mission critical gear,” and knocked a terracotta flowerpot off the neighboring empty house’s stoop, sending a clatter that made the Wilsons’ golden retriever bark once. Molly slapped a hand over his head, dragging him lower into the leaves, grass stains already blooming on her jeans. “If you blow this heist before we even climb the fence, I’m leaving you to sell your moldy 90s Beanie Baby collection out of a Walmart parking lot alone,” she hissed. “That was an accident! That pot was wobbly! And anyway, my gear’s solid, look.” Bill fumbled in his pack, pulling out a kid-sized T-Rex mask and a string of glow sticks. “We can blend in! No one’s gonna question two extra people at a kid’s party, c’mon.” “Blend in? You’re 42, your beard has more gray than my grandma’s wool blanket. The only way you’re blending in is as the tired dad who brought the wrong store-bought cake. You still think Fortnite is a type of margarita, for Christ’s sake.” A group of kids sprinted past the fence chasing a stray Mylar balloon, their screams making both freeze until they rounded the side of the house. Molly peeked over the hydrangea again, scanning the yard: the only parent near the present table was a mom on FaceTime, halfway across the yard arguing with a party supply store, her back fully turned. “Wait, what about the security camera by the back door? I spotted that when we cased the place yesterday,” Bill whispered. Molly snickered, pulling a crumpled empty Sour Patch Kids bag from her pocket. “Covered. I left a full bowl by the front porch an hour ago. The teen monitoring the cameras is shoveling candy so fast he didn’t even notice me walk up. The only thing he’s recording is his own soda burp.” Bill whistled low. “Damn, that’s way smarter than the jewelry store heist. Why didn’t we bait that security guard with candy?” “Because that guard was a 60-year-old retired cop who hates Sour Patch Kids, for one. And two, you tripped over your own feet climbing that jewelry store’s back wall and set off the alarm. This is low stakes: we climb the fence, stuff the biggest presents into the laundry basket I stashed, sneak out before cake. No one gets hurt, we flip that Lego Millennium Falcon and new Switch for enough to pay rent for two months.” Bill fumbled the T-Rex mask over his head, the eye holes lopsided. “Wait, can I still keep the mask on? I’ve always wanted to hit a piñata.” Molly groaned, shoving his shoulder hard enough to send him tumbling into the hydrangea. “If you wear that mask I’m leaving you here to work as the party’s $50 hired clown. Move.”