Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK965QH7DD1RMSGYD9K3T1Q

Molly crouched behind a gaudy inflatable unicorn and unrolled a soggy blueprint of the Smith house. The backyard smelled of frosting and regret. Fairy lights blinked like tiny alarm clocks, but the party was inside, windows glowing with helium and Lego. Bill balanced a thermos lid like a roof tile on his head and consulted a crumpled Pinterest board. They had rehearsed routes, practiced polite smiles, and argued about whether a toolkit that doubled as a balloon pump was too suspicious. Outside, a parent barked nonsensically at a dog; inside, an elf hat bobbed. Molly tapped the plan and pointed at a narrow hallway lined with gift bags. Molly whispered, "Okay, the cupcakes are a decoy. We take the presents, not the frosting. Think stealth, think glitter." Bill sighed, "Glitter is a crime scene in itself. What about costumes? I can be a clown with actual menace." Molly added, "No noise. No crying. If a child wakes, we return the goldfish and leave a note signed 'The Generous Bandits'." Bill chuckled, "We need a distraction. Hand me the Piñata Gun. I'm tired of whispering plans like preschool spies." Molly said, "Piñatas explode candy, not suspicion. Bring glitter bombs, a mariachi playlist on loop, and a polite mask." Bill muttered, "Polite mask? You mean a tiny mustache sticker? Also, who buys enough tape to wrap twenty dolls?" Molly smirked, "I do. I have a coupon and two fabric scissors. You handle the cookies. Do not eat a crumb." Bill fretted, "What if the parents are vigilantes with sending-plates and aggressive baby monitors? I can't face another Alexa lawsuit." Molly shrugged, "Then we pretend to be gift inspectors." The plan slid between them like a poorly wrapped present; it was ridiculous, specific, and perfectly cheerful for a crime. They mapped entrances that smelled of dog treats and escape routes that passed behind a sagging hedge. Molly demonstrated the polite nod, the practiced apology for knocking over a stack of party cups. Bill practiced a smile that suggested he owned a bakery and possibly a secret lair. They assigned roles: Molly would be the collector, gentle with stuffed animals, knowing how to fold a teddy into a satchel without waking it. Bill would be the diversion, juggling two water balloons and humming a tune that sounded vaguely like a childhood commercial. They rehearsed the handoff, where Molly would whisper the word code — "sparkler" — and Bill would slide the loot into a hollow bassinet disguised as a sleeping cousin. At the end they packed away their tools: a ribbon cutter, a bag of polite stickers, two glitter grenades (emptied of actual glitter, because of lawsuits), and a playlist titled "Mariachi for Gentle Thefts." They touched knuckles, grinned, and slipped out into the night like two bedtime stories walking, already composing the opening lines for their leave-behind note. Above them, a string of lights twinkled as if in approval, and the inflatable unicorn folded politely toward the lawn, exactly as the plan required. They laughed.