Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08VSFAT8FXR009HJ0XPSYA

Molly crouched behind the bakery van, peering at the gaudy banner stretched across the garden gate: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TOMMY. Balloons bobbed in the evening breeze like colored spies. Inside, children shrieked with frosting-smeared joy while the presents piled beneath the picnic table shimmered in wrapping paper and ribbon. Bill adjusted his tie, which was fake, like most of his confidence. “Are we really doing this?” he whispered. Molly grinned. “We’re professionals.” “Professionals don’t target six-year-olds.” “They do if the loot is alphabet blocks, model rockets, and a remote-control triceratops.” Bill swallowed. “That triceratops looked expensive.” A clown stumbled past them, juggling oranges and failing upward into applause. Molly held up a silver key ring. “Kitchen entrance is clear. We take the cake box as camouflage, stroll in, and swap the gifts for the empty crate.” “And if anyone asks?” “Smile like caterers. Panic later.” Bill nodded, though his knees had begun a separate plan. “I hate how elegant this is.” From inside came a chorus of singing, followed by the dramatic tearing of paper. Molly glanced at the mountain of presents and sighed. “By midnight,” she said, “that entire room belongs to us.” Bill squared his shoulders. “Then let’s rob childhood with style.”