Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFHGC5K6936WJ3RGB7RGFQW

The oak bush across from 412 Maple scraped Molly’s cheek as she crammed a half-eaten cheese puff into her hoodie pocket, Bill squished beside her, his toolbelt stuffed with granola bar wrappers and a crumpled pack of streamers digging into her ribs. A tiny T-Rex piñata swayed from the front porch, nine screaming kids chasing a clown who’d just popped a water balloon on a PTA mom’s white sneakers. The backyard sunroom glinted behind the house, stacked high of wrapped boxes, exactly where Bill had said they’d be. “Quit wiggling, you oaf,” Molly hissed, swatting his arm. “That clown’s already side-eyed this bush twice. You think he’s gonna mistake a 6’2” guy in a sequined fanny pack for overgrown holly?” “Hey, this fanny pack is tactical,” Bill whispered back, patting the sparkly black fabric. “Holds the 30-gallon trash bag we’re using to haul swag. I did recon. The back sunroom door’s unlocked, the entire party’s gonna pile inside for cake in seven minutes, all the parents are too busy fighting over the good spiked punch to watch the presents. We grab the haul, bolt, fence the Lego sets and the Barbie dreamhouse by the end of the week.” “Your recon is garbage,” Molly groaned. “Last month your recon on the church bake sale said we’d get away with $400, and we ended up manning the table for three hours ‘cause you told the pastor we loved Jesus’ lemon bars. What if we get cornered here? You gonna tell the birthday mom you love her sprinkles?” “I got a cover story!” Bill said, indignant. “We’re the long-distance cousins from Vancouver, here to surprise little Jax. I can even do the accent. Aboot the cake, eh? Pass the Jell-O, eh?” “That sounds like a drunk pirate, not a Canadian,” Molly said, but she was already inching toward the back fence, pausing when Bill grabbed her sleeve. “Wait, one thing,” he said, sheepish. “I, uh, may have promised my sister I’d bring Jax a present. Can we leave him the cheap slime kit I stuffed in my pocket? That’s all I got. The $500 Millennium Falcon’s mine, obviously.” Molly stopped dead, staring at him. “You dragged me three towns over to steal your own nephew’s birthday presents? And you’re only leaving him slime?” Before Bill could stammer a defense, the clown’s voice boomed from behind the bush: “Hey! You two want a balloon animal? I got a dog, or a T-Rex, or a very confused Canadian!” They froze as the clown peeked over the bush, his red nose glinting, a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt loop.