Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFJP33YBVRXCAFQCE72AXTT

They crouched behind an overgrown rhododendron that reeked of wet dog and lawn fertilizer, 20 yards from a suburban ranch house’s wraparound porch, where a stack of crinkle-wrapped presents teetered under a plastic folding table. Their black ski masks clung to sun-warmed foreheads, streaked with sweat; Bill had strapped a pair of iridescent child-sized butterfly wings to his tactical vest that morning, convinced they’d blend with the party’s garden theme, and Molly had only stopped cackling long enough to snatch a crumpled birthday clown lanyard from a gas station rack, figuring it was the only cover story that wouldn’t get them tackled by a stay-at-home dad with a pellet gun. A shriek echoed from the backyard, followed by the thwack of a piñata spilling Skittles across the grass, and a golden retriever bolted past them, a lollipop stuck to its floppy ear. “Remind me again why we didn’t just hit the CVS down the street? They have a whole rack of unopened AirPods that’d be way less work than chasing a pile of Paw Patrol toy trucks,” Molly muttered, prodding Bill’s side with a flathead screwdriver pulled from her hoodie pocket. Bill fumbled in his neon fanny pack, squeezing a squishy rubber duck that blared a loud quack, earning them a wide-eyed stare from a woman walking a poodle three houses down. “Because this is a real score, Moll! All those parents dropped hundreds on that junk, brand new, no serial numbers, easy to flip. Cake’s coming out in ten minutes, everyone’ll crowd the picnic table, we’ll sneak up, grab the whole stack, and bolt. What could go wrong?” Molly nodded at the yard, where the birthday kid’s 6’4” dad, whose bicep beer-can tattoo peeked out from his “World’s Best Dad” tank, leaned against the grill scanning the perimeter like he’d already fended off four groups of teen cupcake thieves. The hired party clown was passed out on a lawn chair, a root beer can tipping slowly out of his limp hand. “What could go wrong? Bouncer dad over there? The sugar-crazed 7-year-olds that can smell a stranger faster than a shark smells blood? Your butterfly wings are so bright they’re reflecting the sun into the living room. I’m not getting arrested because you wanted to play fairy godmother to a bunch of resold Legos.” Bill deflated, wings drooping against his back, and squeezed the duck again, a tiny squeak that sent a sparrow exploding from the bush above them. Their last heist—boosting a truckload of unopened Girl Scout cookies—had gone sideways when they’d accidentally donated half the boxes to a church bake sale before they could flip them. This job was supposed to be their comeback. Molly sighed, tugging the clown mask over her head, plastic eye holes digging into her temples. “Fine. But if that golden retriever chases us, I’m leaving you to hold his leash. And if you quack that duck one more time, I’m hiding all your Thin Mints. Got it?” Across the yard, the birthday mom yelled that cake was ready, and a stampede of tiny sneakers thundered toward the picnic table, leaving the presents momentarily unguarded. Bill grinned, hefting a canvas tote over his shoulder, wings flapping as he readied to slip out of the bush.