Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ079WAG928TAVMNAQ1ZV27P

Molly adjusted her night-vision goggles and squinted at the suburban bungalow, its lawn a minefield of streamers and balloons. Late-afternoon heat shimmered off the siding, and from their van she heard the shriek of a bubble machine working overtime. A sprinkler arced across the driveway, watering plastic tricycles. “The target is loaded,” she said. “Fourteen gifts by the sliding glass door, plus a dinosaur piñata holding premium chocolate.” Bill slouched in the passenger seat, his shirt smelling of last week’s laundromat fire. He lowered his binoculars onto the dash, knocking aside animal crackers. “It is a five-year-old’s birthday party.” “Your point?” “We’re stealing from toddlers.” Molly unfolded a crumpled sheet of graph paper across her knee. She traced a crayon line representing the snack table. “Brayden’s dad runs a hedge fund. Don’t go soft.” “I’m not going soft. I’m going logical.” Bill gestured toward the yard, where a man in a wrinkled Spiderman costume twisted a giraffe out of a lime-green balloon. Children shrieked nearby, chasing each other with foam swords. “No security. Just a moonbounce and a clown.” “Exactly. We blend during the magic show. Twenty minutes while Kenny the Astonishing fumbles his dove.” Molly tapped the blueprint. A grape juice stain marked the escape route. “We ingress as parents.” “We don’t look like parents.” “I have exhaustion in my eyes. You have cargo shorts. We’ll fit right in.” Molly checked her watch, its band held together with duct tape. “Cake drops in ten. That’s when the adults retreat to the kitchen for wine and abandon the gift table.” “What about the kids? They’ll notice us hauling LEGOs to a van.” “We’re the Gift Fairies. Kids believe anything.” Molly produced two adhesive nametags and scribbled with a Sharpie. “You’re the Returns Guy.” Bill rubbed his temples. His patience frayed like old rope. “I robbed a casino last month. Felt fine. This feels different.” “Cameras and guards. Here we have a retriever that ate half a cake and a sprinkler if things go loud.” Molly patted his cheek with the affection reserved for disappointing pets. “Redistribution. To us.” “Very Robin Hood.” “Robin Hood wore tights.” She nodded toward the fence. The piñata swayed like a tantalizing pendulum, its red ribbon dangling toward the grass. “Look. It’s drifting toward the fence line. Practically begging us.” Bill exhaled and lifted a burlap sack stenciled with TOYS ONLY. Morning glories crept up the fence, framing the absurdity in suburban innocence. “If I get frosting on my boots, you’re paying.” “If you eat cake mid-heist, I’ll leave you to face justice from twelve preschoolers.” “Fair.” Bill shoved the van door open, letting in humid air and distant pop music. The scent of cheap vanilla cake wafted through, sweet and threatening. “Do we leave him one gift?” Molly adjusted her fake nametag and smoothed her stolen volunteer vest. “Fine. He keeps the cardigan from Aunt Linda. Builds character.” “You’re a saint.” “I’m a professional. Grab the sack. If anyone asks, we belong here.” “And if they catch on?” Molly flashed a grin and planted her sneaker on the sidewalk. “Then we blame the clown.”