Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCTB0ZEPXXV9PRR9PQPCPYX

Molly adjusted her night-vision goggles, which were entirely unnecessary inside the brightly lit van, and stared at the hand-drawn map spread across the dashboard. Bill, we have a three-minute window between the pinata smashing and the arrival of the ice cream cake, Molly said, tracing a red crayon line through a sticky maze of glitter. If we don’t get the birthday boy's stash by then, the juice boxes will be distributed, and the entire perimeter will descend into sugar-fueled anarchy. Bill took a deep breath, adjusting the clip on his tactical suspenders. Are we sure about this, Mol? I’ve seen three-year-olds on a frosting high. They don’t feel pain, and they bite. That’s why we bring the glitter smoke bombs, Molly replied, slapping a roll of duct tape onto the seat. We slide in through the bounce house, neutralize the petting zoo goats with carrot bribes, and sweep the present table into the duffel bags. What if the mother catches us? Bill asked, his voice trembling slightly as he polished a pair of miniature pink handcuffs. Mrs. Gable runs the PTA with an iron fist. She’ll make us do community service at the bake sale. Then don't mess up the distraction, Molly barked, pointing a finger at his face. When I give the signal, you release the mechanical furby into the clown's pants. The clown is an innocent bystander, Bill protested, throwing his hands in the air. He’s just trying to twist balloons into recognizable canine shapes! In this line of work, everyone is collateral damage, Bill, she snapped back. Now, check the inventory one last time. Bill reached into his tactical vest, pulling out a squeaky toy, two juice boxes, and a bag of gummy worms. Squeaker is operational. Refreshments are packed. Worms are delicious. Good, Molly said, peering out the tinted window at the suburban battleground. Look at that haul on the lawn. Wrapping paper as far as the eye can see. Lego sets, remote-controlled helicopters, maybe even a pony if the dad finally caved. I still think stealing from a seven-year-old crosses a moral line, Bill muttered, adjusting his oversized clown nose disguising his face. We aren't stealing, Molly corrected, pulling her mask down. We are reallocating toy assets to individuals who appreciate them, namely us, because we never got a bouncy castle for our birthdays. Fair point, Bill admitted, testing the squeaker one last time. My seventh birthday was just a box of raisins and a lecture about interest rates. Precisely, Molly declared, grabbing her duffel bag and checking her watch. Time’s up. Go time, partner. Remember, if a child asks who we are, we are very lost magicians. And if they ask for a card trick? Bill asked nervously. Run, Molly said. Just run.