Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ7T7J329B832CAJZMV6MHC

Rain drummed steadily on the corrugated tin awning of the abandoned taco truck they were using as a hideout. Inside, crumpled maps, a toy binoculars with one lens missing, and a half-eaten fruit gusher littered the counter. Molly, wiry and intense, had spread a birthday party seating chart across the damp linoleum, held down by a ketchup bottle and a squirrel figurine stolen from a dentist’s waiting room. She squinted at the diagram, tapping a red dot labeled "Cake Table – HIGH RISK" with the eraser end of a pencil. Bill sat slumped on an overturned bucket, attempting to balance a rubber chicken on his head while reviewing security patterns via a child’s spy watch that only played circus music when activated. The party was for seven-year-old Trevor Wilbanks, heir to the Wilbanks Yogurt Fortune (mini spoons, non-recyclable). Eighteen guests, helium balloons, a clown with two actual criminal charges, and, most importantly, a piñata shaped like a unicorn stuffed with gift cards, novelty socks, and possibly an iPad. Molly exhaled sharply through her nose, adjusting her fingerless gloves. Bill sneezed. They’d need distraction, timing, and a convincing story about being the backup entertainment. Molly had practiced a ukulele version of “Baby Shark” in three languages. The window of opportunity: fifteen minutes between the cupcake massacre and the fire drill. “Ready?” Molly whispered. “Born ready,” Bill replied, still struggling with the chicken.