Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09M1PJSGN7TD3A2PV9VTH7

The rain drummed against the windshield of the battered getaway car, a beat-up old Ford that Bill had hotwired from a meth-head’s driveway. Molly adjusted the ski mask over her face, the elastic snapping against her cheek. She’d bought hers at a party store in the shape of a cartoon cat. Bill had called her a dork, but now he was fishing through the glovebox for something—anything—to use as a lockpick. "There’s a bent coat hanger in the backseat," Molly said, her voice muffled by the mask. Bill dug around, his gloves smelling like old fries. "That’s my lucky charm." "Your lucky charm got us pulled over last week because the taillight was busted," Molly reminded him. "Details," Bill waved a hand. "Besides, this isn’t a heist, it’s a… very aggressive event trick-or-treating." Molly smirked. "Right. That’s why we’re breaking in through the doggy door like common burglars." Bill fitted the coat hanger into the lock of the back patio door and jiggled it. The latch clicked. "See? Low-tech, high-success rate." They slipped inside, boots squeaking on the linoleum, careful to avoid the creaky spots Molly had mapped out from peeking in earlier. The house still smelled like birthday cake mix and cheap spray-on snow. The living room was a minefield of deflated balloons and abandoned ribbons, but the real prize sat under a glittery tarp on the coffee table: a mountain of brightly wrapped loot. "Last chance to back out," Molly whispered. "We could just steal the TV." Bill squinted at the presents. "That’s the equivalent of robbing a soup kitchen blindfolded." Fine. Molly grabbed the big gift-wrapped box at the front, hefting it onto her shoulder. It didn’t budge. "This is either a thousand Xboxes or a box of bricks." "Probably all the good ones," Bill said. He tucked a remote-control car under his arm like a football. "Alright, let’s move. Before the piñata starts hemorrhaging candy." Molly adjusted the strap of the duffel bag slung across her back. Inside were three more items stashed at breakneck speed: a giant stuffed unicorn, a skateboard still in shrink wrap, and a box labeled “DIABLO 3 BUNDLE” that’d be easy to pawn in six months when anyone still remembered that game. The real trick would be the escape. The side gate was chained shut from the outside—some overzealous parent hedging their bets on party crasher deterrents—but Molly had already scoped the neighbor’s rose bushes as our exit strategy. She pointed at the window above the kitchen sink. "Through there." Bill groaned. "I get stuck in rose bushes every single time." "Yet you always volunteer." Molly elbowed him toward the cabinet under the sink. "You go first. I’ll lift the gifts." Bill knelt, pried the metal grate off the drain pipe, and wriggled inside. The pipes groaned under his weight but held. Molly fed him the loot one piece at a time, passing the unicorn like it was a cadaver. The final box stuck in the frame. "Push harder," Bill hissed. "It’s wedged!" Molly braced her boot against the cabinet. "Maybe we keep the unicorn." Bill tugged the box free, sending Molly toppling into the sink. A milk jug tipped over, splashing pink juice everywhere. Outside, a car engine growled to life in the driveway. A parent home, maybe, or a neighbor curious why two people had just robbed a children’s birthday party. Molly grabbed Bill’s sleeve. "We move. Now." They bolted through the rose bushes, thorns tearing at their clothes and skin. Behind them, the back door burst open. "You kids get back here with that truck!" Molly didn’t look back. She tossed the presents into the open trunk of their Ford and jumped behind the wheel. Bill fumbled the keys, dropped them in the footwell, cursed, picked them up— The engine turned over. They peeled out, tires spitting pebbles as the disappointed dad waved his wand-shaped lighter and shouted curses into the rainy night. Bill grinned, holding up the Diablo box. "Best. Trick-or-treaters. Ever."