Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0ADXKHJDJ9S7YHWVJFGVYT

Bill slid his gloved hand along the balloon string, feeling it tremble like a nervous beagle. Molly crouched by the doorway, her crowbar taped to a toy telescope for plausible innocence. Music thudded; laughter leaked through the wall; frosting perfumed the air with optimism and sticky evidence. She pointed at the gift table, where shiny boxes sat under a paper crown. “Bill, quiet.” Bill nodded, then whispered, “The presents only; no kids, no parents.” Molly grinned and produced a roll of contraband duct tape shaped like a lollipop. “I’ve got gloves.” “You take, I watch.” They moved when the magician turned his back, juggling scarves that smelled suspiciously like rehearsal. Bill wedged a foot under the first bow; it squealed once, then settled. Molly stuffed smaller parcels into her sack, trying not to breathe on the labels. A toddler barreled past, squealing, and the mother thanked the air for “being patient.” Their timing tightened. “Wraps, then vanish,” Molly said. “Tonight,” Bill answered, already backing toward the window where their exit plan waited, disguised as a harmless curtain. Outside, Bill’s van idled two streets away, and the radio played “Happy Birthday” in minor key, which somehow felt perfect for bad luck.