Run: 2026-06-01-01KT1HFH88K6PCYH5YQ6M58CQ4

Molly crouched behind the hydrangea bushes, her binoculars trained on the suburban fortress disguised as a birthday party. Streamers sagged from the gutters, a bouncy castle wheezed in the corner, and a clown juggled bowling pins with menacing precision. The present table groaned beneath a mountain of glittering boxes, each one wrapped with the kind of optimism only a seven-year-old could inspire. Bill adjusted his fake mustache, which kept sliding sideways in the heat, and consulted a hand-drawn map smudged with what she hoped was chocolate. "The clown's the problem," he muttered. She nodded grimly. Clowns were always the problem. According to their intelligence, the cake would be served at three o'clock sharp, providing a forty-second window of sugar-induced chaos during which every adult would be distracted by candles, singing, and the inevitable crying of the child who didn't get the corner piece. That was their moment. Molly would create a diversion involving a remote-controlled spider, Bill would commandeer a wheelbarrow disguised as a piñata cart, and together they would liberate every last gift before anyone noticed. "For the record," Bill whispered, repositioning his mustache one final time, "stealing from children feels morally questionable." Molly shrugged. Crime, after all, recognized no birthday.