Run: 2026-10-20-01M5C6R1M3MYY0SB8W7XVA2ZZN

Molly flattened the party invitation against the dashboard of the stolen ice cream van, smoothing its creases with the flat of her hand. The photograph showed a smiling clown, a bouncy castle the color of a bruised sunset, and a picnic table already buckling under a pyramid of wrapped presents. Bill slouched in the passenger seat, binoculars pressed to his eyes, watching a battalion of six-year-olds lay siege to a piñata. A birthday banner hung crooked above the driveway, flapping in the breeze like a surrender flag. Somewhere inside the house, a mother was shouting about gluten-free cake while a distant chorus of toddlers screamed the first notes of Happy Birthday in three different keys. A golden retriever in a party hat patrolled the lawn, sniffing at fallen sausage rolls with the grim efficiency of a bomb disposal expert. The van’s engine ticked as it cooled, and a faint smell of strawberry milkshake mixed with the sharper tang of Bill’s nervous sweat. “Clown’s in at two,” Molly said. “That’s the window.” “I still say we go as the clown,” Bill said. “You’re allergic to face paint.” Molly tapped the invitation. “Presents stack by the castle. Parents drink prosecco, lose peripheral vision. We slip in, swap the loot, slip out before cake.” “Tell them you’re the magician’s rival. They’ll follow anyone with a rabbit.” Bill lowered the binoculars. “The bouncy castle queue is the problem. Parents watch the queue. We can’t waltz past with a sack of Lego.” “We crawl under the table skirt. I’ve got a ghillie suit in back.” A boy in a superhero cape sprinted past the van, screaming about dinosaurs. Bill ducked below the window. “See? Feral,” he said. “One sees us, he tells his mum. His mum tells the clown. The clown tells everyone.” Molly sighed. “That’s why we bring decoy presents. Cheap boxes filled with rice. We swap them. Kids open rice. We’re gone.” Bill nodded slowly, though his eyes drifted toward the ghillie suit bundled in the back like a dead fern. “You’ll love it when you’re face-down in the grass pretending to be a shrub.” A balloon poodle drifted past the windshield, its string caught on the antenna. Bill watched it bob and twist in the wind. Inside the house, a chorus of happy birthday erupted, followed by the unmistakable sound of a cake being dropped. A toddler in the driveway began to wail, a high, operatic note that made Bill’s teeth ache. The golden retriever abandoned its sausage roll and trotted toward the van, tail wagging with professional curiosity. “Fine,” he said. “But if a child cries, I’m blaming you.” Molly turned the key. The van’s jingle hacked out a cheerful, out-of-tune Greensleeves. Bill winced. “We’re definitely getting caught,” he said. “It’s a heist,” Molly said. “It’s a birthday party.”