Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HHVNBY36PSJ5WPYQHV8DCF

The van smelled of pine air freshener and poor decisions. Molly unfolded a birthday invitation across the steering wheel, smoothing the cartoon unicorn with one black-gloved thumb. “Tell me again why we’re robbing sugar.” Bill considered a crate of glitter bombs he had built in case the party required more chaos than usual. “Because presents are untraceable, emotional, and wrapped in felony.” Molly nodded like she had solved a puzzle made of cake. “Target the unicorn table.” Bill wrote it on a napkin he had stolen from a restaurant that specialized in suspicious pastries. Molly pointed to the layout. “Presents by the pinata. Cake by the side table. Parents by the wine. Chaos by the bounce house.” Bill winced at the last word. “We are not stealing the bounce house.” “I am stealing attention.” Molly tapped the diagram. “The bigger the inflatable, the smaller the supervision.” Bill scribbled a note, then paused. “Do we have a code word for dancing?” “Yes.” “What is it?” “Sneeze.” Molly frowned. “If you must run, you need a reason.” Bill shrugged. “A child will not question an urgent sneeze. It is almost scientific.” Molly looked impressed despite herself. “You take the gifts. I distract the parents.” Bill took the clipboard from the glovebox. “No juice boxes,” Molly warned. She pulled out a canvas sack embroidered with a smiley face she had bought ironically. The loot list was simple: no electronics, no gift cards, no books teaching children to share. Bill shook a wrapped present and listened hopefully for batteries. Molly glanced at the suburban street. “The gate is open because it is a party, not a fortress.” Bill smiled, a small criminal thing. “What is our timing?” “Cake.” “And the clown?” Molly stared at him for a long moment. “He wears bells,” she said. Bill hated sound-based security. Molly produced a tiny plastic microphone. “Karaoke.” Bill took it like a baton. “You expect me to sing.” “I expect you to be memorable.” Bill sat straighter. “I can be memorable.” Molly opened the van door. Children spilled into the street like tiny shrieking water, and a banner above the house announced that Madison was turning seven. Bill looked at the presents stacked near a piñata. “Madison,” he said, “you are about to learn a valuable lesson.” Molly paused. “Which one?” Bill let the insult hang with the weight of a birthday candle. The piñata swung above the presents like a threat made of paper and wishes. Molly studied the street, cataloging sightlines, snack stations, and vulnerable adults. Bill tucked a rubber duck from the glovebox into his breast pocket for morale. He had never robbed a party without a duck. It seemed unprofessional. It also made him feel like the villain in a story that ended with cake. They would be ready by the second slice. No one had ever caught them at a children’s event. The real danger was emotional: sticky floors, sudden songs, and adults who believed clowns were harmless. A stolen present would make better villains out of everyone.