Run: 2026-09-03-01M1M24V1E5QMCHAA2VA4W4KXF

The getaway van smelled like frosting and regret. Molly squinted through binoculars at the suburban house, where a crooked banner read HAPPY 5TH BIRTHDAY, TIMMY! Balloons bobbed like colorful spies, and somewhere a sugar-crazed toddler screamed with joy. Molly lowered the binoculars. "All right, Bill. Operation Cakewalk is a go. Target: the present table. Objective: every gift not wrapped in Paw Patrol paper, because those are cursed." Bill, wedged behind the steering wheel in a deflated clown suit, saluted with a whoopee cushion. "Define cursed. Are we talking mild inconvenience cursed, or the dog learns your Social Security number cursed?" Molly ignored him, scanning the yard. "The dog already knows my Social Security number. Look, the perimeter is soft. One mom, one dad, one inflatable castle, and a toddler named Cody who bites ankles like a tiny shark." Bill pulled a laminated party schedule from his pocket and tapped it with a crayon. "The magician arrives at three. We’ve got eleven minutes to become him, steal the loot, and leave before the piñata confessionals begin." Molly held up a warning finger. "Forget the juice box protocol. His dad uses juice boxes as walkie-talkies. If he offers one, don’t drink it. Last year I sipped and argued with his dog for forty minutes." Bill gasped, scandalized. "You argued with the dog? Molly, that’s practically treason." Molly adjusted her neon pony onesie with dignity. "He had persuasive eyebrows, Bill. I’ll go in as Pony Princess. You’re my assistant, Kevin. Our distraction is the classic double bluff: I’ll juggle gluten-free cupcakes while you release the doves." Bill blinked twice. "Doves? We don’t have doves. We have three pigeons, a bag of croutons, and a lawsuit waiting to happen." "Fine, release the pigeons and yell ‘Look, a parrot!’ Then I’ll fake a fainting spell. While they clap, swap the table with decoy boxes filled with broccoli and regret." Bill frowned, horrified. "Why broccoli? Why not something lovable, like kittens?" "Because kids fear broccoli, Bill. They’ll assume the presents were healthy all along and never question it. It’s airtight." "Molly, we are about to rob a five-year-old who still believes in the Tooth Fairy and thinks his dog is a talking princess." Molly zipped her neon pony onesie with a dramatic flourish. "Relax. We’re only stealing the gifts kids don’t want. Socks, educational puzzles, the board game where you learn taxes. Basically childhood disillusionment." Bill nodded slowly, defeated. "So, the entire table." "Exactly. Put on your fake mustache and remember the safe word." Bill straightened his clown collar. "Is it ‘nap time’?" "No. The safe word is ‘uncle.’ If Cody bites you, you’ll need one." Bill opened the van door, paused, and looked back with wide, worried eyes. "Molly, if we get caught, will Timmy share his cake with us in prison?" Molly revved the engine and flashed a glittery grin. "Only if we tell him the broccoli was moral. Now move, Kevin. Childhood waits for no criminal." The van door slammed shut behind them.