Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9J83HDXCJT12077HCTH59

The attic hummed with fans, dust motes spiraling like dancers. A map of the town curled at the edges, half-drawn, half-pretended, as if destiny wobbled. Molly: Bill, tonight we steal the presents with manners—very loud manners—like a polite choir of raccoons, only smaller, with better jokes and worse hiding spots. They tested the plan with a breathy, stifled giggle, pretending the attic floor was a dance floor, and the ceiling a lofty ceiling for ideas. Molly: Idea one: arrive disguised as party organizers, wearing name tags that say Hello, We’re Here to Celebrate, not to pilfer. We wave a clipboard. The map trembled as Molly pressed a finger to it, declaring the route obvious and ridiculous, a paradox the room seemed willing to applaud anyway. Bill: Two: we consult a decoy calendar, so every kid thinks the clock is late for cake and early for presents. That buys us favor. The attic's heartbeat slowed to a tick as they rehearsed. Between jokes, seriousness crept in, wearing sneakers and a smile, made the risk feel theatrical. Molly: I like the idea of risk feeling theatrical; it sounds legitimate enough to impress a dozen unsuspecting party planners. We can bow at cake. Bill's grin widened, as if a spotlight followed him a staircase. If this works, the party will declare us felons, in a friendly, glittery way. Sold. Now, step two: we rehearse our exit with elegance and a mop, in case of confetti emergencies. Also we practice dramatic whispers tonight. That line about dramatic whispers made them laugh, but the room stayed quiet enough to hear the party music drifting through a window below now. Molly: Okay, plan two: distract the adults with a raffle that sounds sincere, like we’re giving away apologies and pretending it’s a school fundraiser tonight. They scribbled on a sticky note, a cartoon treasure map where X marked the cake, and the smiley face winked at calamity with innocent gratitude. Bill: I prefer your optimism, Molly, because it makes guilt look like a costume accessory we can remove at dawn. Then we toast our mischief. The lamp hummed, dropping a glow on their sketches, and Molly traced a dotted line while Bill whispered jokes that sounded almost like ethics training. Molly: Ethics training, they call it; we call it fun with consent, which makes our exit polite and the presents grateful as they depart today. They looked at the clock: not because time mattered, but because rhythm mattered, and the rhythm now sounded suspiciously like a lullaby to mischief tonight. Bill: Then we waltz out through the back hall, humming softly, leaving a trail of glitter and polite apologies that confuse the grown-ups and kids. Outside, a carousel of voices spilled from the street in a chorus they pretended not to hear, while inside the plan paused, listening, daring, hopeful. Molly: Deal. Bill: Then we stick to the rehearsal, smile at the cake, and pretend to forget we ever studied maps about presents tonight, together.