Run: 2026-07-09-01KX41H4QX4YR2V8CTN4QEK5DG

Molly crouched behind the hedge of the Wobbleton house, where paper butterflies trembled in the porch light and a banner announced PERCY IS SIX, PLEASE DO NOT FEED HIM SUGAR. Bill balanced beside her in a caterer’s jacket borrowed from a laundry line, carrying an empty pillowcase decorated with solemn ducks. Inside, thirty tiny guests shrieked around a magician whose silver cape kept catching on furniture. The evening had possibilities. “The house is pink, Bill; surely that violates burglary etiquette.” “Etiquette died when they hired a magician with actual smoke.” “We are stealing presents, not liberating them from capitalism aggressively.” “Same operation, different brochure; keep your voice beneath the kazoo.” Molly unfolded the blueprint, which was actually a pizza menu with arrows drawn between pepperoni stains. The presents occupied a table beneath the staircase: dolls, puzzles, scooters, and one enormous wrapped rectangle that Bill believed might contain either a bicycle or a small relative. Their route passed the garden gate, the kitchen window, and an alarming inflatable triceratops. Its painted grin suggested it knew tax law and grudges very well. “The guest list says every child receives a foam telescope.” “Excellent; telescopes fence poorly, which makes us look charitable somehow.” A whistle blew indoors. Every child froze, except Percy, who was apparently conducting a private rebellion against gravity by hanging upside down from the sofa. The magician produced a rabbit, then looked surprised that it was holding a juice box. Bill regarded the chaos with professional admiration; Molly regarded it as evidence that civilization required locked cupboards. A balloon drifted past, wearing somebody’s tiny police hat with authority somehow tonight. “Your plan involves a clown, a drainpipe, and snack coupons.” “The clown is our distraction; the coupons are emotional insurance.” They waited while the clown staggered across the lawn, juggling plastic fruit with the solemn concentration of a surgeon. On his fourth wobble, he tripped over the triceratops, released three oranges, and accidentally created the distraction Bill had predicted. Children stormed outside, parents followed, and the hallway emptied like a theater after bad reviews. Molly slipped through the gate, and Bill waddled behind her nervously carrying his duckish pillowcase proudly. “I dislike emotional insurance; it always smells like cheese dust.” “Then hold your breath; the birthday boy is approaching patrol.” “He is seven, Bill, and wearing a cape backwards anyway.” “Exactly; unpredictable commanders win wars and ruin buffet arrangements completely.” “What happens if the parents catch us beside the presents?” “We claim we are party inspectors, specializing in gift safety.” “Fine, but I refuse to confiscate anything that makes noises.” At the staircase, they found the gift table guarded by a handwritten sign: PRESENTS FOR PERCY, NOT FOR SUSPICIOUS ADULTS. Molly took offense at the lack of nuance. Bill took offense because someone had underlined suspicious twice. They loaded the pillowcase quickly, choosing gifts by weight, shape, and the likelihood of containing batteries. Then a small voice cleared its throat behind them. Percy stood there, cape fluttering, armed with cake.