Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07GDBTVQ350YHXYF1WB1T4

Molly checked the frosting-smudged mailbox like it was a war map. “No alarms,” she whispered, then pointed her flashlight at the inflatable castle. Bill crouched beside the shrubs, wearing clown shoes he’d stolen from a costume box. “We look like… birthday accessories,” he said. Inside the house, muffled laughter bounced off balloon garlands as if joy were an anti-security system. Molly slid a lockpick from her sock—her best hiding place since the Sockpocalypse of ’22. The front door clicked, then sighed, releasing a warm smell of sugar and panic. Bill opened the door a crack, peered in, and froze. A parade of toddlers tottered past, clutching gift bags like trophies. “That’s a lot of small people,” he breathed. Molly nodded, already estimating escape routes through the toy avalanche. She’d scoped the present table earlier: every box was wrapped, tagged, and somehow terrifyingly heavy. They moved in silence, except for the occasional squeak from Bill’s clown shoes, which sounded suspiciously like squeal violins. Molly tugged the first ribbon free, admiring the bow. “Quick in, quick out,” she mouthed. Bill managed, “And zero therapy bills.” Molly grinned, and they began collecting every last present before the birthday host noticed the missing applause.