Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9SJ39PJJQBT67M5ZA21NV

Evening settled over Maple Street like a lid on a treasure chest. Molly and Bill crouched behind a row of carnival crates, the scent of popcorn and glitter in the air. The community center’s gym glowed with string lights, balloons wobbling like patient pigeons. A loudspeaker crackled with a party playlist that sounded suspiciously like a schedule of opportunities. Molly tittered, and Bill checked the route on a crumpled map drawn by a kid who had sketched a treasure map to a lemonade stand last summer. The door to the kitchen hissed open and shut, a rhythmic sigh that meant the staff were busy with frosting and flavoring. They watched a wall clock tick with the solemnity of a chess master counting moves. Molly spoke softly, the way someone does when they’re about to tell a joke that could land like a cream pie. Molly: We slip in through the kitchen door, while the cake stays in the hall. Bill: The cake stays in the hall, right. And the frosting hides our fingerprints. Molly: Exactly. We look for the gift room, not the glitter room. Bill: The glitter room is where the sequins go to whisper. Molly: Focus. The plan is simple and ridiculous, which is our specialty. Bill: Simple and ridiculous sounds about right for a holiday heist. They inched toward a service corridor where a mop bucket sang against the tile. The air tasted faintly of vanilla and bad decisions. Molly’s eyes gleamed with mischief and an impish confidence she reserved for plan B when plan A had a break. Molly: Once we’re inside, we grab bags, not brawls. Hydrated villains are happy villains. Bill: Bags are good. I’ve got a shoulder strap that can double as a parachute for a stuffed bear. Molly: Stop flirting with your equipment and listen. The presents aren’t just stacked; they’re alphabetized by kid, by year, by the emotional receipt attached to each toy. Bill: That’s… actually horrifying and adorable. Molly: I will explain the ritual. We move like theatre critics at a clearance sale. Quiet, discerning, quietly sweeping up the drama. Bill: And if a kid comes in crying? Molly: We smile, offer them a balloon, and say we’re only rehearsing for a miracle. The hall grew louder—voices of party-goers, the clatter of plastic cups, the squeal of a foam sword. A karaoke machine wheezed into a power cord, and the glow of a birthday cake warmed their faces like a small victory. Bill checked the imaginary clock on his fingers. Then he lowered his voice, which was rarely lowered unless he was hiding something behind it. Bill: Once the doors open, we move like synchronized swimmers, but with more glitter and less drowning. Molly: We’ll drift through the hall, grab the top layer of gifts, signal the decoy team outside, and vanish into the night with a trail of ribbon and confetti. Bill: And if someone catches us? Molly: We pretend we’re part of the magic. We’re the bad kisses on a fairy tale, Bill. We’ll charm them back with a chorus of “Happy Birthday” and a distraction involving a pinata that won’t break. A group of children bounced by, their shoes squeaking, their laughter a chorus that insisted on chaos. Molly tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Molly: It’s almost go time. We smile, we nod, we pretend we know what we’re doing, and we do what we came for. Bill: The party guardians won’t see us in the glow of streamers. We’ll be memory and rainstorm at once. Molly: Ready? Bill: Ready. They rose as one, a pair of ridiculous, committed burglars who believed in the nap of destiny and the comedy of misdirection. The hall’s brightness swelled around them, and for a moment the scheme felt less like a crime and more like a perfectly rehearsed prank—one that would be talked about, in whispers, at school bake sales for years to come. Then they stepped into the glow, and the night began to laugh with them.