Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9FP8X60055QX3HGTWCTRS

Molly crouched behind the hydrangeas, the kind that looked like they had been bribed to stay fluffy. Beyond the hedge, a backyard pulsed with pastel chaos: a rented bounce house, streamers, and a banner that read HAPPY BIRHTDAY, which felt like an omen. Bill adjusted his binoculars like he was watching a hostage exchange instead of eight-year-olds. “Tell me again why we’re robbing a children’s party,” Bill whispered. “Because,” Molly said, “adults buy boring gifts. Kids get the good stuff. Remote-control dinosaurs, glitter slime, the kind of batteries that could restart a submarine.” Bill squinted. “I see a clown.” “Not a clown,” Molly corrected. “That’s a ‘balloon artist.’ Clowns are the ones with the legal department.” “You sure the parents won’t notice their presents disappearing?” Molly tapped her earpiece, which was actually an old earbud with the wire cut off. “Parents notice nothing. They’re trapped in a labyrinth of juice boxes and forced small talk.” Bill shifted, his knee making a crunchy protest in the mulch. “What’s the security?” “Two dads at the grill. One mom on cupcake patrol. A golden retriever with commitment issues.” “The dog worries me.” “It’s wearing a bandana that says BIRTHDAY BUDDY. That’s basically surrender.” Bill glanced at the gift table: a long picnic bench stacked with bright bags and bows like a parade float had exploded. “How do we extract without being seen?” Molly pointed at the bounce house. “We go in as entertainment.” Bill stared at her. “We are criminals, not entertainment.” “Speak for yourself,” Molly said. “I’m delightful.” “We can’t just walk in.” “We can if we carry something that looks official. People obey clipboards.” Bill patted his jacket. “I brought a crowbar.” “Same energy,” Molly said. “Different crowd.” The wind shifted, carrying the smell of hotdogs and bubble solution. Somewhere, a child screamed with the joy of a person who has never paid rent. Bill lowered his voice. “What’s the plan, exactly?” Molly’s eyes shone with the fever of logistics. “Step one: enter via side gate during the piñata. Step two: deploy distraction.” “What distraction?” Molly nodded toward Bill. “You.” “I’m not a distraction. I’m a professional.” “Bill, you once tripped a museum alarm because you sneezed near a laser.” “It was a historic sneeze.” Molly reached into her tote and produced a folded paper hat, the kind made from newspaper. “Put this on. Instant authority.” Bill took it like it might bite. “It says ‘PARTY CAPTAIN.’” “I wrote it,” Molly said. “With crayon.” “Kids respect crayon.” Bill sighed, sliding it onto his head. “What am I supposed to do?” “Walk up and announce an emergency party game,” Molly said. “Something loud. Something involving running away from the gift table.” Bill frowned. “Like what?” “Like ‘Freeze Tag But The Floor Is Lava And Also There’s A Pirate.’” “That’s not a game, that’s a lawsuit.” “Perfect,” Molly said. “While they scatter, I sweep the presents into the getaway container.” Bill blinked. “Getaway container?” Molly nudged the stroller beside her—an empty baby stroller with a suspiciously reinforced undercarriage. “Nobody questions a stroller. Society sees one and immediately forgives all crimes.” Bill leaned closer. “We’re using a stroller. To steal presents.” “To relocate,” Molly said. “We are present couriers.” Bill looked toward the patio where a woman arranged plastic cutlery with grim focus. “What if someone asks whose baby it is?” Molly shrugged. “We say the baby is introverted.” Bill swallowed. “And if the dog barks?” “I brought backup,” Molly said, pulling a pouch of bacon treats from her pocket. Bill stared. “You bribed the dog.” “I negotiated,” Molly said. “He has demands.” Bill glanced at the misspelled banner again. “This feels… wrong.” Molly softened, just a hair. “We’re not stealing from the kids. We’re stealing from the gift economy. Also, I peeked. Half those bags are educational.” Bill’s face tightened. “Educational?” “Math puzzles,” Molly said, disgusted. “We’re doing them a favor.” Bill took a breath, then nodded with the solemnity of a man committing to an extremely specific bad decision. “Okay. Piñata moment. I go in, I cause… pirate lava.” “And I do the sweep,” Molly said. “We meet at the alley, two minutes. No heroics.” Bill adjusted his crayon hat. “If I get hit with a foam sword—” “Take the hit,” Molly said. “It’s part of the job.” A chorus of children began chanting near the center of the yard. The piñata—an unfortunate unicorn—was being hoisted into position. Molly leaned in. “Ready?” Bill stared at the unicorn like it had personally insulted him. “Ready as I’ll ever be to commit grand larceny against a My Little Pony.” “Unicorn,” Molly corrected. Bill sighed. “Whatever. Let’s go steal capitalism.”