Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HAPMWNY7ZBSWTE5EA07FJT

Molly spread the crayon map across the alley wall, drawing a balloon with a sinister little mustache. Bill crouched behind a cake box, wearing a party hat he had stolen from a squirrel. The house beyond thumped with shrieks, pinata swings, and the terrible percussion of a sugary conga line. Molly said, "We pose as clowns and grab presents." Bill blinked. "I hate clowns and sticky fingers." Molly said, "Smile or I replace your mask now." Beyond the fence, a magician screamed as doves unionized. Bill adjusted his hat. The plan depended on cake, confusion, and a wagon labeled Laundry. Molly produced two red noses. One had been chewed. Bill sighed, accepting the chewed one because professionalism meant sacrificing dignity. They crept toward the backyard, where frosting glazed the lawn and a toddler guarded the gift table like a tiny, suspicious banker. Molly clicked her clown shoes into stealth mode, which sounded exactly like honking. Bill muttered something about retirement. The presents waited, wrapped in whales and rockets, doomed. Tomorrow the newspapers would report the birthday bandit, but tonight the bandit needed napkins, an escape route, a quiet closet, and possibly a pony for the very slow, extremely dignified getaway.