Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9MJPWGBKATG6EZ46P13A7

Molly crouched behind the plastic castle in the party store’s display window, peering through binoculars at the chaos of balloons and sugar inside the community center. Bill, beside her, was chewing nervously on a clown-themed napkin he’d “borrowed” for research. “This is deranged,” Bill whispered. “We’re robbing eight-year-olds, Molly. That’s like, villain origin story stuff.” “Relax,” Molly said. “We’re redistributing wealth from children to people who appreciate Bluetooth speakers.” “Children appreciate Bluetooth speakers.” “They use them to play Baby Shark. That invalidates their claim.” Bill peeked over the cardboard turret. “There’s a magician. With a rabbit. You didn’t say anything about rabbits.” “Why would the rabbit be a factor?” “I’m allergic to judgmental animals. Rabbits are the worst. They stare like disappointed tax auditors.” “Focus, Bill. Presents. Table. North wall. We’re in, we’re out, nobody cries.” “Somebody will cry,” Bill said. “Have you ever seen a kid lose a glitter slime kit? It’s like watching a tiny Greek tragedy.” Molly flicked open the party schedule she’d stolen from the bulletin board. “Two-fifteen: cake. Two-twenty: presents. We have exactly five minutes between ‘Happy Birthday’ and ‘ravenous unwrapping frenzy.’” “So your plan is… what? Yell ‘Look, a piñata in the parking lot’ and run?” “Tempting,” she said, “but no. We’re going undercover.” Bill stared at her outfit. “Undercover as what? A disgruntled kindergarten teacher who failed art class?” “Undercover as a professional face painter,” she said. “You’re my assistant. You carry the bag.” “I don’t paint faces.” “You won’t. You will, however, block the view of the presents with your large, guilty body while I swap the real gifts for decoys.” “Decoys?” She pulled a box from her duffel. “Empty. Weighted with canned beans. Kids tear off the paper, think, ‘How exciting, a brick,’ meltdown ensues, we’re long gone.” “Has anyone ever told you you’re the reason cartoon villains exist?” “Frequently. Put on your apron.” The apron was pink, spattered with fake glitter, and emblazoned with “Princess of Pigments.” Bill groaned. “Why does mine say ‘Princess’ and yours says ‘Art Director’?” “Because life is unfair and I plan ahead.” He tied it on, scowling. “If any of these kids ask for a unicorn, I’m calling my lawyer.” “You don’t have a lawyer.” “Then I’m crying. Publicly.” They moved toward the side door. Molly tested the handle. “Unlocked. See? The universe approves.” “Or the universe assumes decent people don’t burgle SpongeBob-themed events.” Inside, the air was thick with frosting and shrieks. A banner screamed HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AIDEN! over a battlefield of paper plates. Molly plastered on a smile. “Showtime. Remember, you’re Bubbles.” “I am not Bubbles.” “You are absolutely Bubbles.” The birthday mom spotted them. “Oh thank god, the face painters! You’re late!” “Traffic,” Molly said smoothly. “So many clowns on the road. Professionally, I mean.” Bill muttered, “I’m retiring,” but grabbed the supply bag and waddled toward the gift table, parking himself in front of a tower of wrapped boxes. Molly set out brushes she had no intention of using. “Who wants to be a tiger?” she called. Every child screamed, “ME!” Bill winced. “We’re going to jail,” he hissed. “Smile,” she whispered back. “Tigers don’t suspect crime during stripes.” Aiden marched up, sticky with frosting. “Can you paint my face like a dragon that breathes lava and also has a jetpack?” Bill blinked. “Kid, that’s not a face, that’s a mid-budget action movie.” Molly leaned close to him. “Dragons. Five minutes. I swap the gifts while you stall.” “How am I supposed to stall a dragon enthusiast?” “Ask follow-up questions,” she said. “Kids love talking about lava.” Bill sighed, then knelt. “Okay, champ. Important design question. What’s the dragon’s monthly fuel budget for that jetpack?” As Aiden launched into an exhaustive financial breakdown of imaginary aviation, Molly slipped behind Bill, fingers already working at the ribbons on the presents, her smile as bright and fake as the glitter on his apron.