Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9FX718EQ12QG86GBZY82Y

Molly flattened her gloved hand against the van's fogged window, eyes reflecting the party lights like a cat considering a particularly lit-up tree. Bill was riffling through a bag of inappropriate tools — glitter snippers, a folding pink poodle costume, and a tape dispenser that had seen better lives. They had rehearsed this one in the mirror until the mirror started to protest. Outside, a backyard chorus of small voices and helium-rope music made their target feel alarmingly alive. Molly showed Bill the blueprint drawn on a paper plate, an absurd plan with arrows and a doodle of a goat for reasons she would not explain. They both knew theft etiquette: never touch the birthday crown, never spill a juice box, and always leave a single balloon for the grieving aunt. Molly tapped the side of her nose as if activating a brain-burglary switch. She peered toward the back porch where a table sagged under a pyramid of presents like a sleepy paper mountain. Bill chewed a crumpled napkin and squinted, doing the math of ribbons and probable sticky fingers. He was the practical one; Molly was the one who considered whether wrapping paper had rights. A moth bumped a party light like a tiny, apologetic burglar. Molly whispered something that wasn't on the plate; Bill nodded as if struck by a good pun. Molly said "We hit the party at seven when cake sugar makes everyone predictable." She tapped the plate. Bill replied "Predictable isn't the issue—it's the glitter; it latches onto your shoes and your soul." He adjusted his poodle ears. Molly said "We need a distraction. Balloon animal catastrophe, maybe. You can be the rogue poodle." She grinned like someone who enjoyed chaos. Bill said "I'll practice my sad clown face. Do I honk when burglary calls for tragedy?" He made a face in the window. Molly said "No honking. We bring a magician who vanishes but only in the forty-second corner." Her finger hovered over the napkin stash. Bill murmured "Forty-second corner? That's a shame; I only have a routine for the thirty-first." He crumpled the napkin into the shape of a tiny balloon. Molly said "Listen, Bill, use the cupcake fog. Kids will assume it's theatrical—then you nab the pile." She wagged an eyebrow in theatrical approval. Bill asked "Cupcake fog? You mean powdered sugar grenades?" He looked genuinely concerned for the pastries. Molly said "Yes. And for the grand exit: confetti parachutes disguised as napkins." She folded a napkin into a secret map. Bill growled "You always overdo the theatrical. I prefer a clean sweep: bags, masks, and silence." He made a list with a crayon. Molly announced "Silence isn't funny. We need a theme: 'Return of the Presents' — everyone applauds, then we applaud louder." They both pretended to be solemn party guests. Bill whispered "And the glitter, boss?" The moth hit the light again, comically punctuating the plan. They synchronized watches, smiled, and slid into the night like mischievous confetti, softly together.