Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ8280FWSYF6FDYQHH15C24

Molly crouched behind a towering castle of stacked toy boxes, her neon-green hair barely visible under a glitter-streaked party hat she’d liberated from the favor table. Bill, her accomplice in both crime and aggressively mediocre costume choices, hovered nearby in a crocodile onesie he’d apparently bought on a whim. “Are you *sure* about the distraction?” he whispered, his voice muffled by a foam sword slung over his shoulder like some kind of misguided samurai. He tripped over a lost sippy cup, sending a pyramid of mini LEGO sets clattering. “Nope,” Molly said, adjusting her bunny ears. “Just wing it. Steal the cake, yell ‘BOO!’ real loud, and hope the mom thinks it’s part of the entertainment. She’s already halfway drunk on punch with rum.” Bill saluted, then promptly Saluted a helium balloon tied to a nail in the wall. “What’s the exit strategy if they call the police?” he asked, tugging at a plastic badge reading *“World’s Best Party Animal”* as if it might shield him from cuffs. “Same way we got in,” Molly said, gesturing to the open window where a toddler had just launched a stuffed dinosaur into the yard. “Through the piñata. If we’re lucky, they’ll think the candy’s just, uh… *mysteriously multiplied* or something.” She crept forward, her boots silent on the shag carpet, while Bill held his ground, panting like a bloodhound tracking glitter. “What if I get recognized?” he mouthed, pointing to his onesie’s attached cymbals, which jingled every time he moved. Molly facepalmed. “Just stick to the plan. When I say *‘go,’* grab the gift table and run. And *try* not to eat any of the snacks.” A shriek erupted as a contained balloon burst overhead, drenching them in confetti. Bill’s cymbals rang wildly. “I think I just triggered the alarm!” “It’s a *five-year-old’s* birthday, Bill,” Molly snapped, yanking him toward the snack table. “The only alarm they have is for the juice boxes.” A toddler waddled into view, clutching a purple crayon and squinting at Bill’s tail. “You’re *on* the cake list,” she declared. Bill froze. “Cake list? What cake—” “**GO!**” Molly hissed, shoving a sack into his claws. He sprouted, knocking over a stack of bounced punch cups. “Wait, what about the security guard?!” “No *real* guard. There’s just the mom’s snoring dachshund. Now,” Molly said, leaping onto a photobooth backdrop, “let’s turn this party into our personal piñata.” Bill sprinted, arms flailing, toward the gift table as a glitter-coated toddler chased him, yelling, “Look, it’s a *real* alligator!” “Problem,” Bill muttered, dodging a bubble wand. “I can’t tell if they’re *my* alligator or the cake list’s.” Molly grinned, hoisting a sack full of tiny sneakers and a questionable preschool craft. “Then run faster. If you’re lucky, they’ll think you’re part of the theme.” Somewhere, a kazoo began wailing. The plan was officially underway.