Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9CEAA2NCVQ8ZBWFETBWFE

The bakery window framed the street like a stage, frosting-glossed and safe, while Molly and Bill hunched over a napkin heist-map. Crayon arrows, cake crumbs, and an ambitious sketch of a bouncy castle made their blueprint festive. Outside, helium balloons pawed the sky like inattentive sentries on their string leashes. "Molly: The party starts at two, which means chaos marinates by two-oh-five. We drift in as face painters, bold aprons, softer voices. We flatter every cupcake. Then, while the magician misplaces his dignity, we shepherd presents toward the 'quiet corner'—also known as the van wearing a cone hat outside nonchalantly." Bill sipped coffee so sweet it could have hired its own dentist, eyes flicking between the napkin and the squeaking birthday banner across the street. He had the look of a man translating toddler, deciphering symbols: unicorn equals stampede, glitter equals fog, juice boxes equal tiny, weaponized rectangles in mobs. "Bill: The presents migrate toward the cake like worshipers with tissue paper faith. We need decoys. I say we wrap two bricks as 'From Aunt Nebula' and plant them visibly. Parents will guard the fakes. Meanwhile, we cartwheel sincerity, borrow a wagon, and escort generosity to freedom under moral confetti." Molly’s pencil twirled, dotting the napkin with freckles that wanted to be blueprints when they grew up. A choir of toddlers outside rehearsed a shriek in D minor. The clown staggered from a sedan like an inflatable philosopher, one shoe already apologizing to the other in squeaky despair about destiny. "Molly: Timing is frosting. We practice our innocent eyebrows at the balloon release, when the sky forgets itself. While everyone narrates altitude, we choreograph a charitable-looking flurry. If anyone asks about the bag, I’ll say I’m collecting allergies. Parents love logistics. Children love bags. Everyone fears glitter and its residue." Bill unfolded a child-sized party hat, inspected its tensile integrity, and crowned a salt shaker. The shaker looked instantly prepared to negotiate. Across the street, a bounce house inhaled Perth, or at least enough air to suggest continent-sized hubris. Somewhere, a piñata creaked like a diplomat with secrets made fragile. "Bill: Contingency for tears: I juggle oranges, you honk a bicycle horn, we become the noise they deserve. Contingency for questions: we nod wisely and whisper, 'Insurance.' Contingency for cake: none; cake is undefeated. But I’ve bribed the DJ to play lullabies at battle tempos. Parents march children nap maybe." Somewhere between their schemes and the sugar breeze, the job acquired ethics with sprinkles. Bill remembered birthdays with homemade robots. Molly remembered wanting the biggest bow because it meant surprise, not value. They stared at the napkin until it blushed, then at each other as the clown practiced sincerity awkwardly. "Molly: Final plan: we take every present, every ribboned suspicion, the whole glitter herd. Then we mail thank-you notes from 'Future Gratitude.' We sort the haul, route duplicates to the shelter, and return one mysterious box at midnight like a fairy godmail. Crime, but with impeccable stationery and matching stamps."