Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD5A84F7VKHVM5XGWZ3B9BJ

Molly leaned against a graffiti-covered dumpster, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Okay, Bill, listen up. The Smiths’ backyard bash starts at three. We hit it at three-fifteen." Bill adjusted his hat, squinting at her. "Three-fifteen? What, we’re waiting for the sugar rush to peak?" "Exactly. Parents are busy chasing toddlers, and the presents are in the garage—locked, but not *baby-proofed*. I’ve got a friend with a lockpick set." "A friend who’s also a convicted felon?" Bill raised an eyebrow. "Details, Bill. Details." Molly pulled out a crumpled map. "Garage door code is 4-7-2. I hacked their smart lock app. Easy." Bill snorted. "You *hacked* a smart lock? What’s next, a drone to distract the dog?" "Genius, actually. I’ll deploy the drone—call it ‘Sir Barksalot’—while I slip in. You create a distraction at the gate. Maybe dressed as a delivery guy?" "A *delivery guy* who’s clearly not holding a pizza?" "Exactly! They’ll assume it’s a mix-up. Parents are confused, kids are screaming, and we’re in and out." "And the presents? You can’t just grab a sack and run." Molly grinned. "We’ll use the garage’s utility truck. Fake a breakdown, load up, and vanish before anyone notices." Bill sighed. "And if we get caught?" "Then we blame the dog."