Run: 2026-05-10-01KR91ACPB2KD3A75VSKSQZZ7P

Molly shoved her way into the empty storage room behind the balloon vendor’s table, kicking the door shut with the heel of her boot. Bill was already crouched by the service ladder, running a finger over a scratched map he’d drawn on the back of a pizza box. “We hit the cake table at exactly four-fifteen,” she whispered. “Every kid will be too busy licking frosting to notice two extra clowns slipping past with empty gift bags.” Bill tilted the pizza box so the overhead fluorescents hit the diagram. “Clowns are a fifty-fifty risk. Half these parents already hate clowns. One scream and we’re ankle-deep in screaming rugrats.” He tapped an X near the gift table. “Back door behind the bouncy castle—more direct, less birthday hats on our skulls.” Molly yanked a black-and-white striped shirt from her duffel. “The shirts scream circus, not creepy. Besides, I like the honk-honk.” She slipped the shirt over her head, then adjusted the red foam nose in her fist. “You worry too much about noise. We’re not stealing Weasley’s wand set; we’re taking three dozen gift bags stuffed with cheap plastic dinosaurs. Parents will thank us by Tuesday when the kids forget whose present was supposed to go to whom.” A string of party poppers popped somewhere on the other side of the door and the music hiccupped. Bill flinched but kept studying the map. “Timer says four-ten for us to roll up the gifts and bolt. If the magician starts his disappearing act early, our window shrinks like cheap balloons.” He looked up, eyes narrowed. “You sure about the giant bow on the bags? Makes them look like actual presents, not loot.” Molly grinned, snapping the bow around the bag’s neck. “That’s the charm, Bill. Walk out like we’re delivering more gifts instead of nabbing them. One confused grandma asks where we’re taking the loot, we smile, mutter something about gift exchange, and keep walking. Worst case, we’re faster than any parent chasing us while holding a plate of half-eaten cake.” Bill shook his head, folding the pizza box flat. “You keep banking on adult confusion. One dad with a phone camera and we’re trending as ‘Party Crashers of the Year.’” He stuffed a coil of rope into his cargo pocket. “I say we take the utility stairs instead. Two flights straight to the loading dock. Less foot traffic than racing past the magician’s table.” Molly glanced at the glowing digital clock on her wrist. “Four-oh-five. We’ve got ten minutes to look festive and ten more to make it downstairs. You in or you backing out over a clown phobia?” She offered him the second red nose, the foam slightly squished from travel. Bill accepted the nose but flipped it between his fingers like he was debating one last protest. “Clown shoes squeak. One wrong squeak and we broadcast the whole escape.” He pocketed it anyway, then shouldered his bag. “Fine. Utility route, coordinated honking only if absolutely necessary.” Molly cracked the door an inch. Laughter and the smell of frosting drifted in like war paint. She looked back with a quick smirk. “Then let’s go steal a birthday or three. Fifteen minutes, no survivors—except the presents.”