Run: 2026-09-02-01M1HJ842AT6T5F9Y9NBEP54MQ

The Henderson house smelled of frosting and poor decisions, which Molly called opportunity and Bill called frosting. They crouched behind a hedge in the neighbor’s yard, reviewing a childish map. The backyard looked like a battlefield of crepe paper and tiny chairs. A banner cheerfully announced that a child had completed one whole year without being eaten by anything useful. Three gift bags sat beneath a plastic tablecloth, bulging with the confident weight of tablets, bicycles, and expensive socks. Molly studied the path like a general surveying a hill of cake. Bill studied the path and mostly imagined cake. The sun was too bright. The music was too cheerful. A woman in a glittered vest chased a screaming child with a spoonful of frosting. Somewhere beyond the inflatable castle, a dog barked once, considered the noise, and chose not to care. Molly drew arrows on the crayon map with her marker, turning innocent houses into escape routes. Bill folded his mask into his jacket, then unfolded it, then tried not to look at the unicorn horn again. He checked his watch, checked the gift bags, and checked his watch, because time in a heist moved like a toddler with a juice box: unpredictably, loudly, and with sticky consequences. Bill swallowed hard. He had robbed museums, galleries, and one very unfortunate garage sale, but never a party where the victims still believed in fairy tales. That felt different, like stealing marshmallows from a snowman. She did not mention the marshmallows. Bill blushed. Bill held up a tiny mask. “We cannot wear this.” “It is aerodynamic.” “It has a unicorn horn.” “Unicorns are aerodynamic.” Molly pointed at the backyard. “The magician is inside. The parents are drinking punch. The children are forming dangerous sugar alliances. The presents are waiting.” Bill frowned at a gift tower. “Are we stealing from birthdays?” “We are relocating joy.” “Joy should not need relocation.” “Ask Great Aunt Linda.” Molly pulled a list from her pocket. “First, we enter through the gate during the piñata song. Second, we grab the biggest pile. Third, we leave before anyone remembers why we are holding bags.” Bill raised a finger. “Fourth, no cake.” “Fourth, cake is tactical.” “Then fifth, no singing.” “If we need to sing, we sing.” “I cannot sing.” “You are wearing a unicorn mask. You will.” Bill looked toward the party. A toddler was already crying because a balloon disagreed with him. “That is chaos.” Molly nodded. “That is cover.” He tapped the map. “What if the dog likes me?” “Then the dog becomes an accomplice.” “That sounds worse.” “Worse.” Molly handed him a roll of ribbon. “For distraction.” “Is that safe?” “Nothing here is safe.” The backyard erupted in applause. The magician had made a rabbit appear, or possibly a very confused shoe. Molly’s eyes widened. “Now.” Bill adjusted his mask and whispered, “We will be remembered as monsters.” “Only cute ones.” They slipped around the hedge, tiptoed past the cake table, and joined the screaming crowd.