Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9919AR3XFEDC6K7F0NN1J

Twilight spilled across the quiet suburb as Molly and Bill scavenged a map of the night from a sticky pastry box. The target was a children's birthday party at the community center, a fortress of cake and louder-than-life laughter. They whispered like plotters in a nursery rhyme, both convinced a goofy caper could outwit adulthood and bad diets. Molly studied the party's glow from the street, mapping routes in her head the way a scavenger hunts for retail discounts. Bill adjusted a scarf, the only prop he trusted, and declared that courage was a dessert you eat last. The wind carried scent of pretzels and excuses. They rehearsed in the alley, tongues loose and stubborn, like kids who forgot they were grounded. The scene would be funny on television and dangerous if anyone important asked what they were doing. Yet they pressed on, because the idea of a room full of wrapped possibilities tickled their nerves. They spoke in whispers that were loud only in their own heads, as if the world could be convinced by a shrug and a pun. They argued about timing, never about risk, because in their universe risk had the wrong haircut and would vanish if you squinted. Molly pulled a label off a yogurt cup and stuck it to Bill's sleeve, using it as a goofy badge for birthday joy. When a siren of a far-off fire engine reminded them of consequences, they pretended it was a dramatic bass drop and kept moving. The party room, with its banners, became a stage where they practiced absence and misdirection as if they were actors in a child-friendly crime caper. They paused at a mock-up table of decorations, each ornament a reminder of how quickly a plan collapses into a sneeze and a shrug. If we pull this off, Bill muttered, the party will remember us as the wind that visited and left gummy footprints. Molly nodded and did a ridiculous bow as if presenting a prize, which was herself and a questionable moral compass. They exhaled, nerves, and stepped toward the glow of the party. Molly: Timing matters, but not as much as confidence, which is wearing a tiny red cape tonight. Bill: The cape is not for concealment, it's for morale. Molly: I can't believe we're doing a party heist without a playlist. Bill: We could hum the theme from a cartoon, see if anyone notices. Molly: The only thing we should notice is when the cake starts singing. Bill: Then we bow and bow and bow, because bowing is basically stealth. Molly: We also need a believable excuse for why we are here, something about party-safety checks. Bill: I brought a clipboard and a look that says I once passed a safety test I invented. Molly: Then the trick is to appear untrickable, like a suspiciously helpful holiday elf. Bill: Elf, but with a better exit strategy than a reindeer. Molly: We should choose a decoy, maybe a magician who loses his wand.