Run: 2026-09-01-01M1EKRF47PHESSJBGZRPEVKMZ

The balloons had multiplied overnight like invasive species, clustering in the gutters and choking the mailbox. Molly adjusted her black turtleneck—her ice-breaker uniform—and peered through the hedge at the chaos inside the Anderson residence. The theme was "Under the Sea," which meant a dragon wearing a snorkel was currently terrorizing a toddler near the sliding glass door, its tail knocking over a juice box castle. Bill crouched beside her, clutching a duffel bag labeled "Party Supplies: Not for Thieves." His goggles were tilted like a drunk sailor, and he was breathing through his mouth in short, hopeful bursts. "We need to move fast," Molly said. "The presents are in the den, wrapped in paper that says 'For Timmy, Age Five.' We grab them, we go, we sell them to someone with a grudge against joy." Bill nodded, his eyes fixed on the front door. A clown had emerged, carrying a silver tray of chicken nugget sculptures shaped like sharks, each one somehow more menacing than the last. "We go through the side gate," Molly said. "The dog is napping." "The dog is Mr. Fluffington, and he loves cheese strings," Bill said. "I brought cheese strings." Molly stared at him. "You brought cheese strings?" "For bribery." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "Fine. Distract with cheese, I enter through the kitchen. We have ten minutes before the piñata." Bill adjusted his goggles, which slid down his face like a bad secret. "What if there's a mom who wants us to play pin the tail on the donkey? I refuse to do that. I have a bad back." "You won't have to," Molly said. "You'll be unconscious from embarrassment." They moved. The side gate creaked in protest. Bill produced a cheese string and waved it like a white flag of surrender. Mr. Fluffington, a golden retriever with the soul of a tax accountant, sniffed it, then turned away in moral disgust, choosing instead to judge them with his eyes. "Your bribery failed," Molly whispered. "He's judgmental," Bill whispered back. They slipped inside. The den was a fortress of wrapped rectangles, a cathedral to consumerism. Molly began stacking them with the precision of a librarian in a hurricane. Bill stood in the doorway, staring at a balloon arch that arched over the doorway like a rainbow of dread. "Do they know we're here?" Bill asked. "Professionals," Molly said. "Except for you." "I am professional," Bill said. "Plan B: if caught, I say I'm a gift inspector. They will believe me because I am wearing sunglasses indoors." "You removed your sunglasses." "They fogged." Molly stuffed a present into her sack. It was heavy, possibly a toy truck or a book about feelings. "We need to leave before the cake cutting." Bill stared at a banner that read "Happy Birthday, Timmy!" in glitter that seemed to mock them. "I feel bad." "We are criminals," Molly said. "I'm a criminal with a conscience," Bill said. The front door opened. A voice chirped, bright and terrifying, "Who wants to play musical chairs?" Molly grabbed Bill by the collar. "Run." They sprinted through the kitchen, past a tray of juice boxes arranged like dominoes, and out the side gate. Mr. Fluffington barked once, not in alarm, but in artistic critique. Bill pulled off his goggles, panting. "Did we get them?" Molly held the sack aloft. "All of them. Except the one that is clearly a live hamster in a box labeled 'Surprise.'" Bill turned back toward the house. "Should we go back?" "No." Bill nodded, then pulled out the cheese string. "For the road?" Molly rolled her eyes. "It's your funeral." They fled into the suburb, leaving behind a birthday party that would forever suspect the weather, and a clown who would tell this story for years to come.