Run: 2026-09-03-01M1M1HJJ08RCTMM0AGEMT0Y0A

The van’s windshield framed the house like a terrible painting: too many balloons, one sad banner, and a bounce house trembling as if it regretted every life choice. Molly sat in the passenger seat, studying the party through a pair of binoculars that had been stolen from a birdwatcher who never saw it coming. Bill was in the back, wrestling a roll of duct tape and a bag labeled “Absolutely Not a Kidnapping.” He lost the fight with the tape. It wrapped around his wrist, his elbow, and, briefly, his sense of self. Molly ignored him. The plan needed focus, and focus required her to pretend Bill was a quiet professional instead of a human disaster with sticky fingers. Outside, a child in a plastic crown sprinted past the front window, screaming about cake. Another child followed, wielding a juice box like a tiny mugger. Molly checked her watch. The gift table would be unguarded during the musical chairs massacre, which lasted approximately four minutes and produced approximately nine casualties. “Blue backpack,” Molly said. “Envelopes, gift cards, cash. The good stuff.” Bill finally freed himself and crawled forward. “What about the pony?” “The pony is a problem,” Molly admitted. “A miniature one. Timmy’s parents rented it. It’s wearing sequins.” “Sequins,” Bill repeated, horrified. “Yes. And it bites.” Bill considered this. “Can we bribe it with a cupcake?” “That’s your plan? Bribery and frosting?” “It worked on the guard at the lipstick factory.” “That security guard was a golden retriever, Bill.” Bill shrugged. The movement dislodged a whoopee cushion from his jacket. It sighed loudly. Both thieves froze. Inside the house, nobody noticed. The children were too busy destroying a piñata shaped like a cartoon lawyer. Molly returned to the binoculars. “Here’s the plan. I’m the replacement magician. You’re my assistant. We grab the gifts and leave before cake.” “What if somebody asks for a magic trick?” “You pull a juice box out of your sleeve.” “I don’t have sleeves.” “Then pull it from your pants, Bill. I don’t care. Just don’t use the whoopee cushion.” Bill nodded and adjusted his tie, which was actually a necktie printed with ducks. Molly had insisted it looked trustworthy. It did not. Nothing about Bill looked trustworthy, except perhaps his shoes, and those were stolen from a clown. A small shadow fell across the windshield. The miniature pony had escaped. It stood in the front yard, chewing the “Happy Birthday” banner and staring at the van with the cold judgement of a very small horse. Molly lowered the binoculars. “New plan.” “Thank God,” Bill said. “We still steal the presents.” Bill blinked. “Really?” “Look at him. That pony has more dignity than this entire party. And I bet he knows where the good gifts are.” The pony whinnied. Somewhere inside, a child began to cry. Molly grinned, opened the van door, and stepped into the suburban battlefield. Bill grabbed the duct tape, the bags, and his courage, which was mostly duct tape by now.