Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9DWWMNBZ4AN0RW6R3YJ7Q

Molly crouched behind the hydrangeas, the leaves damp enough to soak through her knees. The suburban backyard glowed like a carnival: paper lanterns, balloon arches, a banner that screamed HAPPY SEVENTH, and a bouncy castle that wheezed like it had asthma. Through the sliding door she could see a mountain of wrapped boxes stacked beneath a table dressed in pastel cloth. Bill adjusted his beanie with the concentration of a surgeon. His binoculars were upside down. “Tell me again why we’re robbing a birthday party,” he whispered. “Because,” Molly whispered back, “the rich hide their valuables in plain sight, and nothing screams ‘unguarded loot’ like a pile of presents supervised by a seven-year-old with a sugar addiction.” “Presents are mostly socks and board games.” “Bill, you’ve never met the kind of parents who gift drones to children who still believe in the tooth fairy.” Bill lowered the binoculars, blinked, then raised them the right way. “Okay, I see the stack. But there are, like, thirty kids. That’s thirty witnesses. Small, loud witnesses.” “We’re not doing violence,” Molly said. “We’re doing misdirection. We’re doing theater.” “Theater makes me itch. Remember that time at the opera?” “That was your fault for bringing cough drops in a crinkly bag.” Bill pointed toward the yard. “How do we get past the bouncy castle? It’s basically a moat, but inflatable.” “We blend in,” Molly said, tapping the tote bag beside her. “Costumes.” Bill eyed the bag as if it might hiss. “Please tell me it’s not clowns.” “It’s not clowns.” He exhaled. “Good.” “It’s mascots,” Molly added. His exhale reversed. “Molly.” “Look, I have a unicorn head and you have—” “No. Absolutely no.” “—a friendly dinosaur,” she finished. “Kids love dinosaurs. They trust dinosaurs.” “Kids also poke dinosaurs with sticks.” “They poke their parents with sticks too; it’s not personal.” Bill squinted. “What’s our cover story?” Molly pulled out a laminated card with a cartoon rainbow. “We’re ‘Sparkle & Stomp,’ the party entertainment.” Bill took it. “You laminated crime.” “I’m a professional.” “I can’t believe I’m about to commit grand larceny dressed as something from a toddler’s nightmare.” “Technically,” Molly said, “it’s petty larceny unless the drone is really nice.” Bill watched a parent carry out a tray of cupcakes with frosting so bright it looked radioactive. “And the presents? How do we move them without looking suspicious?” “Simple,” Molly said. “We introduce a game.” “A game,” Bill repeated, the way someone repeats “fire” when the kitchen is already smoking. “Musical Presents,” Molly said. “Everyone puts their gift in the middle, we play music, they walk around, and when it stops, they grab one.” Bill frowned. “That just redistributes the gifts.” “We stop the music,” Molly said, “and we grab all of them.” Bill stared at her. “That’s not a game. That’s just… theft with a soundtrack.” “Exactly,” Molly said. “Kids love a soundtrack.” Bill chewed his lip. “What music?” “Something wholesome,” Molly said. “Like that song about the baby shark.” Bill shuddered. “That’s psychological warfare.” “We’re criminals, Bill.” He looked toward the sliding door again. “What about the parents? Parents are suspicious. Parents have instincts.” “Parents are busy,” Molly said. “They’re counting heads, wiping noses, and pretending not to hear the bouncy castle coughing up a lung. Plus, I brought props.” She opened the tote bag and revealed bubble wands, a small portable speaker, and a clipboard. Bill pointed at the clipboard. “Why the clipboard?” “Clipboard is authority,” Molly said. “Nobody questions a clipboard. I could walk into the Pentagon with a clipboard.” “You tried that.” “They questioned the raccoon.” Bill leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We need an exit plan.” “We load the gifts into the wagon,” Molly said, nodding toward a red wagon parked near the fence, “then roll it out like we’re doing them a favor.” Bill followed her gaze. “That wagon is tiny.” “It’s a decoy wagon,” Molly said. “Real wagon is in the van.” “How many wagons do we need for this crime?” “As many as it takes,” Molly said. “Now, put on your dinosaur head.” Bill hesitated. “Promise me this: no improvising.” Molly slid the unicorn head over her own face. Her voice came out muffled, but confident. “Bill, when have I ever improvised?” “You stole a painting once by pretending to be a museum tour guide.” “That was planning,” Molly said. “The planning happened… while I was talking.” Bill sighed, then reached into the bag. “If a child asks me to roar, I’m quitting.” “Roar gently,” Molly said. “Approachable roar.” Bill pulled on the dinosaur head, his voice now echoing from inside foam. “If this goes wrong, I’m blaming the unicorn.” Molly stood, brushing leaves from her leggings. “If this goes right, we’re buying a drone.” Bill peeked through the dinosaur’s mesh eyes. “And if it’s all socks?” Molly started toward the gate, bubbles already forming at the wand. “Then we steal the cake. Nobody ever guards the cake.”