Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9KGV5JSYNXRJRZKGG9FQ7

Molly crouched behind the hedge like a cat that had taken a correspondence course in burglary. Across the street, a bungalow pulsed with balloon colors and the shrieks of children on a sugar mission. A banner read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEO! with a cartoon dinosaur that looked smug. Bill adjusted his black beanie, which made him look less like a criminal mastermind and more like a disappointed turnip. “This is ridiculous,” Bill whispered. “We’re robbing a children’s party. I feel like the villain in a public service announcement.” Molly peered through the leaves. “Not robbing. Redistributing. Those gifts are just sitting there, unguarded, flaunting their wrapping paper. It’s practically entrapment.” “Since when do presents entrap people?” “Since always. They lure you in with bows and then boom, you’re stuck at a party playing musical chairs with strangers.” Bill glanced at the driveway. “Okay, so what’s the plan, Captain Morals?” Molly tapped the small notebook she’d labeled OPERATION: PINATA. “We go in as entertainers. I’m the magician. You’re my assistant.” “I’m six-foot-two,” Bill said. “Assistants are supposed to be small and flexible.” “Perfect,” Molly said. “You’ll be the tall kind. Like a giraffe in sequins.” Bill stared. “A sequined giraffe. At a kid’s party.” “You own a black turtleneck,” Molly replied. “That’s basically show business.” A minivan door slammed. A woman carried out a tray of cupcakes topped with tiny plastic construction hats. Bill’s stomach growled loud enough to be heard by the neighborhood watch. “We also have to avoid the parents,” Bill said. “Parents can smell guilt. Like dogs.” Molly nodded. “And they ask questions. ‘How do you know Leo?’ ‘Why is your wand shaped like a crowbar?’ Just smile and never blink.” Bill opened his duffel bag. Inside: a cheap top hat, a deck of cards, and three lengths of rope that could either be magic props or, in a pinch, deeply concerning. “I brought the smoke pellets,” he said. “Good,” Molly said. “Nothing says wholesome fun like a minor chemical event.” They watched the living room window. A mountain of presents sat near the cake table, shimmering under tissue paper like a treasure hoard curated by five-year-olds. There were dinosaur-shaped packages, a suspiciously heavy rectangle, and one gift bag that rattled like it contained either LEGO or an angry snake. Bill sighed. “We take everything?” Molly’s eyes glittered. “All of it. But we leave the cards. I’m not a monster.” “And the birthday kid?” “We don’t touch the kid,” Molly said. “We’re thieves, not nightmares.” A party game began inside; children chanted something rhythmic and violent. Bill flinched. “Is that… ‘Pin the tail on the donkey’?” he asked. “Sounds like it,” Molly said. “Barbaric tradition. They blindfold the young and demand accuracy. Society is doomed.” Bill pulled out two party hats. “These are from last time.” Molly inspected them. “They say ‘CONGRATS GRAD.’” “Kids can’t read,” Bill said quickly. “They just sense joy.” Molly tucked the hats into her coat. “We enter during chaos. You distract with rope tricks. I ‘accidentally’ move the present pile closer to the back door. Then we vanish.” Bill swallowed. “And if they ask for a magic trick?” Molly smiled. “We’ll do the oldest one. The Disappearing Gift.” Bill hesitated. “Molly?” “What.” “This is wrong, isn’t it?” Molly leaned closer, voice gentle. “Bill, these gifts are going to end up broken under a couch by Tuesday. We’re giving them a chance at a second life. Possibly on the internet.” Bill exhaled, defeated. “Fine. But if I end up wrestling a clown, I’m quitting crime and becoming a crossing guard.” Molly checked the street. “Showtime. Remember: smile, wave, and if anyone offers you juice, say you’re allergic to fruit.” Bill stood, straightening his beanie. “I am allergic to fruit.” “Then tonight,” Molly said, “you’re allergic to suspicion.”