Run: 2026-10-08-01M4D9X4SZSFKR6CE9DV4BZ0PG

The alley behind Maple Street smelled of wet cardboard and cheap birthday balloons. Molly crouched behind a recycling bin, binoculars pressed to her face, while Bill leaned against the fence eating a sandwich he had clearly lifted from a lunchbox. Through the lens, the Pemberton house glowed like a birthday cake. Presents covered the porch, stacked higher than the mailbox and wrapped in pink and blue paper with glittering bows. Somewhere inside, a clown with a clipboard was checking name tags. "Fourteen presents," Molly whispered. "One shaped like a giraffe." "Giraffe's mine," Bill said through a mouthful of bread. "You don't even know what's in it." "Doesn't matter. Giraffes are a lifestyle." She lowered the binoculars and glared at him. Bill had been her partner for six years, which meant she had learned to ignore roughly ninety percent of what came out of his mouth. The other ten percent was usually brilliant, and that was the part she needed right now. "Here's the plan," she said. "Kitchen window. The latch is broken, and Mrs. Pemberton keeps promising to fix it. Once the kids head into the backyard for the piñata, we roll the presents out the side gate." "Roll them?" "I brought the wagon." Bill looked at the wagon. It had a wobbly wheel and a faded sticker reading PROPERTY OF ST. AGNES CHOIR. "Molly, that's a choir wagon." "Choir wagons don't ask questions." He sighed, brushed crumbs off his coat, and followed her across the street. They reached the fence in a clumsy rhythm: Bill boosted, Molly hauled, both of them muttering under their breath. Halfway over, a sprinkler clicked on and drenched them both. From the backyard drifted a ragged chorus of Happy Birthday, every voice slightly off-key. Molly froze on the fence top, dripping. "Did you plan the sprinkler?" she hissed. "I plan everything," Bill whispered, grinning. "That's our cue." They dropped into the flowerbed, mud squelching beneath their sneakers. The kitchen window loomed above them, its latch hanging loose like a wobbly tooth. Molly slid a butter knife into the gap and wiggled. The window popped open with a soft, obliging sigh. "Mrs. Pemberton really should fix that," Bill murmured. "Thank goodness she never does." Inside, the kitchen smelled of frosting and burnt popcorn. Molly hoisted herself over the sill and landed in a bowl of sprinkles. Bill followed, slipped on a puddle of punch, and crashed into a tower of paper cups that toppled like dominoes. Somewhere in the backyard, a child screamed with delight. "Still think this is a cakewalk?" Molly hissed. "A cakewalk's a dance, not a heist," Bill whispered, already eyeing the cupcakes. Molly grabbed the first present within reach, a tag reading TO: OLIVER, FROM: GRANDMA, and tucked it under her arm. The giraffe was waiting.