Run: 2026-09-03-01M1M0G8V3CMGKW4EZH00J48G9

The van smelled like burnt coffee and regret. Molly adjusted her night-vision goggles, which were actually swim goggles with green cellophane taped over them. Across from her, Bill was squeezing into a purple dinosaur mascot costume that had seen better decades. “Remind me again,” Molly said, “why we’re robbing a birthday party instead of, I don’t know, a bank?” Bill grunted as a foam tail detached and hit the wall. “Banks have cameras, guards, and that judgmental beeping every time you walk in. This place has juice boxes and a bouncy castle. Also, look at the pile.” “Also,” Molly added, “why are you dressed as a dinosaur? I agreed to breaking and entering, not community theater.” Bill adjusted a foam claw. “Kids trust dinosaurs. Adults fear them. It’s a very narrow window of power, and I intend to use it.” Molly opened her mouth, then closed it. “That was almost smart. I’m unsettled.” Molly peered through the window. A mountain of wrapped presents glittered on the table. “Okay, fair. But we need a plan.” “We have a plan. You’re the distraction.” “I’m the distraction?” “You’re great at small talk with adults.” “Bill, my idea of small talk is ‘I’m calling the police’ with a smile.” Bill zipped the costume halfway. It stuck at the belly. “Fine, I’m the distraction. I waddle in as Fun Bill the Dinosaur, do a roar, knock over the punch bowl, and every kid screams and every parent reaches for their phone to record it. Meanwhile you slide through the gift room like a ninja.” “Ninja,” Molly repeated. “Yes. Because nothing says stealth like a grown woman crawling past a ball pit.” “Do you want the presents or not?” Molly sighed. “Fine. But if a six-year-old tackles me, I’m keeping whatever I can carry.” “Deal. Grab the good bags, not the socks.” “There are socks?” “There are always socks, Molly. It’s the universe’s way of saying, ‘Congrats, you’re a criminal, but your feet will be cozy.’” “Also,” Bill said, “avoid the piñata. It’s rigged.” Molly frowned. “Rigged how?” “Let’s just say the candy isn’t the only thing with a hard shell. Trust me, nobody wants a lawsuit from a preschooler.” She checked her watch. “Party starts in four minutes. Where’s the getaway vehicle?” “The getaway vehicle,” Bill said proudly, “is that.” He pointed at a glitter-covered tricycle leaning against the fence. Molly stared. “We’re escaping on a tricycle.” “Technically, I’m escaping on the tricycle. You’re behind me, pedaling for your life.” “Bill, I have a driver’s license.” “Not for this you don’t. Now roar.” “Fine,” Molly said. “But if I end up in a timeout, you’re explaining it to my parole officer.” Bill gave her a thumbs-up with a foam claw. “Noted. Now go be deceptively cheerful.” Bill thrashed his tail. Molly groaned, opened the van door, and stepped into the suburban jungle. “I hate heists,” she muttered. “That’s the spirit,” Bill said. “Also, seriously, try not to steal the cake; it’s always a trap, Molly.”