Run: 2026-04-25-01KQ2FYYSMVZ8BMJJQ05730J94

The inflatable unicorn bobbing over the neighbor’s fence was a beacon of juvenile excess. Molly pressed her face against the binoculars, counting the wrapped packages stacked beside the bouncy castle. “Eighteen. At least.” Bill, wedged behind a hedge, jotted notes on a napkin. “Security? The dad’s grilling. He’s got tongs. That’s a weapon.” “The cake’s a distraction. We hit during ‘Happy Birthday’—everyone’s eyes shut, mouths open. Classic.” Molly lowered the binos. “Grab the haul, slip through the doggy door.” “The doggy door,” Bill repeated, deadpan. “That the one shaped like a bone the size of my head?” Molly grinned. “We grease up. I saw a tub of shortening in their recycling.” “I’ll be a human butter stick. My mother would be so proud.” They watched a piñata take a brutal beating. A child screamed with unbridled joy. Bill sighed. “I feel bad for the little monsters.” “Don’t. They’ll get more presents than we ever did. And we’re giving them a story. ‘The Great Present Heist of 2024.’” Molly clapped him on the shoulder. “Legacy, Bill.” “My legacy is lard stains on my pants.” He folded the napkin. “Fine. But I’m wearing gloves. I draw the line at finger-greased loot.”