Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9T79FX80RQJYQH2EJVETQ

Molly crouched behind a folding table draped in a plastic tablecloth, knees nearly brushing a box of mismatched paper hats. "The cake is the diversion; we nab the presents when everyone sings and hugs and takes selfies." Balloon animals bobbed like skeptical clouds and the scent of frosting made her consider a smaller moral compass. "What about the piñata? I could swing it, kids scatter, we sweep in like polite raccoons." Bill was flat against the wall, ears tuned to the popcorn machine; he twirled a paper straw and practiced his 'aw shucks' face. "Also, Santa's costume from the prop closet. I can double as an off-brand Claus and wheedle trays." They had rehearsed the choreography of casualness: a bumped elbow, a dropped napkin, a surprised exhale at the cake. "You always wheedle trays. Fine. I'll manage the adults: misleading flattery, spilled punch, a helpful glance toward the pile." Tonight's job was small in scale but large in absurdity; stealing gifts from toddlers required a special kind of bravery and a forgiving seam. "We need a password to get past the craft table guards. Something plausible—'Uncle Tony approves'?" Molly checked her watch and winked; it was more ritual than timekeeping, a signal to begin. "No password. I prefer deception: spill a balloon animal, cry 'safety hazard,' ferry sacks out as 'donations'." They worked the room map like thieves of etiquette, plotting a route from the snack table to the gift corner with military precision and ridiculous empathy. "We split: you distract with slapstick, I perform the sleight-of-hand. Meet behind the bouncy castle at eight." The guests were small engines of chaos, parents orbiting them like embarrassed moons, distracted by tiny lit candles and louder promises of frosting. "And the go-bag? It needs ribbon, tissue, tags—so it looks like we were wrapping returns. Plus cake crumbs for authenticity." Molly rehearsed the lie she'll tell the craft table parents, the one with a soft voice and a plausible uniformed angle. "Twelve minutes to charm, twenty to empty, thirty to vanish, and laughs." Bill mouthed grocery lists to himself like a mantra, but the list was full of small items that could be repurposed as evidence of benevolence. They had rules: no scaring, no running with boxes, and always return at least one glittery tissue to the scene. A stray party horn sounded like an alarm and then like a silly alarm, which was perfect for their sensibilities. Molly's palm itched for the weight of the plan; she liked the way it folded into pockets and pockets folded into exits. Bill grinned, showing a marshmallow smear he claimed was tactical camouflage, and mimed a curtain pull. They were ridiculous people with a practical hobby and tonight the prizes would be tiny cars, dolls with missing shoes, and one suspiciously heavy cardboard box. Molly slid a grateful glance to Bill; together they would transform polite chaos into a well-executed theft and call it art. Then they stepped forward as if summoned. Very bravely.