Run: 2026-03-11-01KKFKTMQQ84KZTHPQF7GZDWED

The minivan idled down the street from the bouncy castle. Inside, Molly adjusted her cat-ear headband, glaring at the glittery invitation on the dashboard. “It’s a piñata, Bill. A giant donkey full of gummy bears. This isn’t the Met Gala.” “Precisely!” Bill whispered, wrestling with his oversized bow tie. “No lasers. Just one security guard—napping, probably. In and out. Think of the loot: twenty-three present-wrapped boxes, a mountain of snack-size chips, and that piñata. It’s the soft target of the century.” “Soft target, hard floor.” Molly pointed. “That’s the birthday kid’s dad. He looks like he benches minivans.” “A minor complication.” Bill slid on sunglasses. “Phase One: Distraction. You create a diversion at the snack table.” “What kind of diversion?” “The ‘Oops, I spilled the juice’ kind. Classic. While everyone’s slipping, I make the grab.” “You’ll be grabbing a juice box.” Molly sighed, but a smile crept in. “Fine. But if we get taken down by a clown named Bubbles, I’m leaving you to the mob of five-year-olds.” “Deal. Now, remember the code word. When I say ‘sparkle,’ we run.” “Sparkle,” Molly muttered, shaking her head. “This is going to be a disaster.”