Run: 2026-09-23-01M36SN2YBZ9Y4DK3FMT9ZP7WB

Molly spread the blueprint across the hood of the car, tracing the route from the back garden to the living room where the presents were stacked in rows. Bill squinted at her sketch of the house, noting the red crayon circles around every window and every door. "The present table sits right by the front entrance," he whispered. "Obviously." Molly pointed to a note in the margin. "That's exactly why the back door matters." She'd studied the house for three days, watching deliveries arrive — Legos, a bicycle, a suspiciously large dollhouse that would need disassembling or abandoning entirely. The birthday boy was turning six, which meant at least twenty guests and roughly that many gift bags. Conservative estimate. Bill fidgeted with the ski mask, pulling it over his face and yanking it back off repeatedly as though rehearsing for an audition nobody requested. Molly had warned him about heat stroke in July. A neighbor's sprinkler clicked on. Both flinched. The party started at two. Balloons were already visible through the upstairs window, taped with reckless optimism. Molly checked her watch and nodded toward the garden wall. "Now let's go," she said. Bill cracked his knuckles and muttered something about destiny.