Run: 2026-05-10-01KR8W96QNH9A4GKG7HZGC0PK0

Molly slouched against the battered van’s hood, tracing a finger across the crumpled blueprint. “Think about it, Bill. The bouncy castle’s the weak spot—those parents won’t leave the punch bowl unguarded for more than twenty seconds.” Bill dropped a duffel of black bags and yanked the zipper open. “Yeah, but the moment we step inside they’ll peg us as the creepy uncle and aunt who forgot the RSVP. I say we go in as clowns. Gives us face paint and an excuse to carry oversized bags.” Molly snorted, wiping imaginary dust from her jacket. “Clowns terrify kids, not parents. We want the grown-ups relaxed enough to ignore the giant sacks under the table. I’m thinking balloon guys handing out free helium. Toddlers love it; the adults look away.” “Helium tanks weigh a ton,” Bill said, hefting an imaginary cylinder. “Unless you plan on huffing fake voices all night, we’ll need real muscle. Maybe just dress as maintenance.” “They called the maintenance guy last week. Unless you plan on arriving with a busted trampoline and sounding like you fix moon bounce springs for fun.” Bill sighed and checked his cheap digital watch. “Party starts at three. Presents go on the folding table by the sliding glass door exactly when the magician starts. His big finale is confetti cannons. Everyone claps, heads turn, we dive.” Molly tapped the paper. “I’ll create the diversion—drop dad’s peanut butter cup into the dog bowl. When the mutt goes nuts, every parent flocks to the allergy announcement board posted on the garage door. You snake in, grab the gift bags stacked alphabetically, and load them into the wagon we stashed under the neighbor’s oak.” Bill raised an eyebrow. “You sure the dogs won’t swallow aluminum foil and blow our cover?” “Positive. The retriever hasn’t seen peanut butter since Christmas. We’ll be heroes by the time they notice the presents are history.” Bill folded the blueprint and shoved it into his pocket. “Okay, but we bail the second the mother starts counting loot bags. I don’t need some forty-year-old in yoga pants tackling me for a Spider-Man lunchbox.” Molly cracked a grin. “Relax. By then we’ll be two blocks down in the van, laughing our way to the pawn shop that never asks for receipts.”