Run: 2026-07-25-01KYD6FGRZRMBXYEZZXQ544252

Molly crouched behind the hedge, surveying the bungalow like a general allergic to authority. Balloons bobbed; toddlers squealed; a piñata shaped like justice hung from the maple. Bill adjusted his stolen magician’s cape and sneezed glitter. “We go in as clowns,” Molly whispered. “I hate clowns,” Bill said. “Grab gifts, not kids,” Molly said. Bill nodded. “Cake first, obviously?” “For morale,” she said. “Professionally.” She mapped exits: kitchen window, laundry chute, inflatable castle if things got theological. The plan was elegant as a spoonful of cough syrup: mingle, admire the frosting, stuff presents into the accordion case, then vanish before musical chairs turned criminal. Bill worried the parents had numbered the gifts like evidence; Molly worried he’d propose to the bouncy house. When the magician inside produced a rabbit, both professionals felt inadequate. Still, greed is a party trick with no sleeves. They crept toward the lantern light, practiced innocent faces, and promised each other that stealing from children required maturity, timing, and exceptionally quiet shoes. The doorbell played “Baby Shark.” Bill wept. Molly saluted the piñata. Justice swayed, blindfolded, sweet, and unaware that alibis wear hats.