Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFES4QRA7TZZG2760X3Y4H6

The backyard glittered with streamers and the tinny sound of a clown's trumpet. Molly lowered her binoculars and let out a low whistle. "See, Bill? This is what I call a target-rich environment." Bill, crouched beside her in the dubious safety of a large azalea bush, adjusted his balaclava. It was bright pink, chosen for 'morale purposes.' "I see cake, I see ponies, I see one very stressed-looking mother. But where's the motherlode?" "Patience, grasshopper. The presents are in the garage. I saw the dad wheel in a Radio Flyer wagon stacked to the heavens. Action figures, art kits, a bike with training wheels that are still on." Molly's eyes gleamed. "A bike? We're heisting training wheels?" Bill wrinkled his nose, nearly dislodging his mask. "Our reputation." "Our reputation is we're broke. The fence, Jimmy the Weasel, said he could move 'kid stuff' no questions asked. A bike's a bike." She started sketching a crude map on a napkin. "Okay, you're the distraction." "Always the distraction. Why can't I be the sleek infiltrator for once?" "Because last time you tried to be sleek, you got tangled in a doggy door. You're a natural distraction, Bill. It's a gift." She jabbed the napkin. "You go to the front. Ask to use the bathroom. Make a scene. Steal a balloon animal, I don't care. Just get every adult to look at you." "Then?" "Then I slip in through the side gate, go to the garage, and load the sack. Simple." Bill shifted, rustling the azalea. "What if there are kids in the garage? Playing a game or something?" Molly stared at him. "Bill. It's a party. The games are out here. The garage is a temporary warehouse for loot. Our loot." "Right, right. Okay. But what's my line? For the distraction?" "Just be yourself. Apologize a lot, ask weird questions. You're a lost party clown who got the wrong address." "A clown? In this?" He gestured to his all-black attire and pink balaclava. Molly sighed, the sound carrying the weight of long-suffering partnership. "You're a avant-garde clown. A minimalist clown. You tell them you were booked for a 'performance art piece' and your set got lost in transit. It's perfect. No one argues with performance art." "That's... actually not bad." Bill puffed up his chest. "Ten minutes. Front door. I'll be watching. And Bill? Try not to high-five any more children. You almost blew the aquarium job with that." "He offered! It was rude to leave him hanging!" He paused, his voice softening. "Hey, Molly? Thanks for this. The bike thing. It's nice to have a score that doesn't involve lasers." "Thank me when we're cashing the check, Bill. Now go be confusing." She gave him a gentle push out of the bush. Bill straightened his pink balaclava, took a deep breath, and marched toward the front door with the determined gait of a man about to ask very strange questions about balloon animal philosophy. Molly watched him go, a small, fond smile playing on her lips before she turned her attention back to the garage. Time to get to work.