Run: 2026-09-23-01M37PKW7FT8KH6MQP24M8FWFC

Molly crouched behind a hedge shaped like a giraffe, binoculars pressed to her face, though the party was fifteen feet away. Through the window, she counted the presents stacked beneath a banner reading "Happy 6th Birthday, Timmy." "Twelve presents," she whispered. "Maybe thirteen." Bill, wedged beside her in a suit two sizes too small and a clown nose he refused to remove, consulted a laminated blueprint of the house he'd drawn himself in crayon. "The piñata is the wildcard," he muttered. The plan was elegant in its stupidity. They would enter through the back, disguised as entertainers Bill had "neutralized" that morning—a magician and, inexplicably, a second magician. Molly had argued for balloon artist, but Bill insisted the tuxedo was non-negotiable. Inside, sugar-crazed children shrieked like tiny sirens. A mother in a "Party Planner of the Year" apron guarded the gift table with the vigilance of a museum curator protecting the Mona Lisa. "Remember," Molly breathed, "we grab, we wrap, we vanish." Bill adjusted his squeaky nose. "What about the cake?" "We're professionals, Bill." He sighed, wounded. The cake was clearly the real prize, and Molly knew it. Somewhere in his heart, past three priors and a failed clown college application, he believed cake theft could be an art form.