Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0NWZDFK06Z43JG6AZQWS6B

Molly had drawn the map on a napkin using ketchup, mustard, and the last noble smear of Bill's eclair. The target was Mrs. Puddifoot's Saturday birthday extravaganza, a sugared fortress of balloons, shrieking cousins, and unattended treasure wrapped in dinosaurs. Outside the community hall, rain polished the windows until the children inside looked like tropical fish in paper crowns. “We take cake first,” Molly whispered. Bill frowned. “Presents, Molly. Focus. Tiny socks, noisy robots, suspiciously heavy boxes. Then we vanish before musical chairs.” Molly considered this with professional gravity, though a pink party hat already perched on her head for camouflage and made her resemble a criminal flamingo. Bill adjusted his false mustache, which was real only in its ambition, and checked the empty sack labeled Donations, because honesty, he felt, was best worn ironically. Their plan depended on entering during the magician's routine, when every adult would be clapping politely and every child would be demanding rabbits. Molly would distract the clown with advanced balloon criticism. Bill would compliment the punch. Then, with the elegance of burglars and the stamina of babysitters, they would liberate the mountain of gifts. What could possibly go wrong waited nearby, grinning through frosting.