Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9VVERDJ9PES0W8QHY7QD8

They crouched behind a line of plastic lawn flamingos, eyes bright as sugar rushes. Molly checked a folded list and adjusted a too-small mask while Bill balanced a duffel like a stage prop. The backyard smelled of frosting and sprinkler water; laughter leaked through a window and made both of them eager and nostalgic. This was the first time either had practiced altruism that involved burglary. Molly whispered, "Are you sure you checked the sugar-high window schedule? Kids move unpredictably after cake." Bill squinted at a porch light and produced a watch from his sleeve, the band painted with a child's cartoon. Bill murmured, "I timed it. Three minutes between sugar and present-unwrapping frenzy. That is our Bermuda Triangle." They rehearsed exits like bad play actors, the backyard a stage of wobbly lawn chairs and abandoned paper crowns. A string of fairy lights winked like security cameras pretending to nap. Bill tapped the duffel as if it contained robber tools but mostly it held a kettle, a toy cape, and a cache of sticky fingers. Molly lowered her voice, "We need a distraction. Clowns are out, balloon animals are suspiciously popular now." Molly made a face as if recalling a dangerous birthday song. She produced a small fog machine from the duffel and looked at Bill with conspiratorial pride. Bill grinned, "Get me a singing kettle and a fog machine. Kids adore chaos with a soundtrack." He tapped a battered kettle that whistled less like boiling water and more like a kazoo tuned by moonlight. They checked the window again and practiced their slow-motion entry; Molly tripped on purpose to test the attention span of intervening adults and received only a distracted wave. Bill said, "Glitter is forever, like our careers if we're caught." Molly tugged a faux beard from her pocket like a magician revealing a rabbit and shrugged. She scanned the gift table through the window, a glitter mountain. Molly nudged Bill and said, "Also, Santa! We borrow the beard, we borrow the guilt, we walk out with wrapped miracles." Bill made a face at the beard and counted aloud, fingers trembling not from cold but from the ridiculousness of choosing crime over cookies. Bill shrugged, "No guilt tonight. We leave a note: 'From Santa's busy elves.' Simple guilt laundering." They rehearsed leaving a contrived note, an act of perfunctory conscience that felt like laundering a conscience with ribbon. Outside, a dog barked twice and resumed a short nap. Molly poked a bag searching for glitter and then said, "Don't forget the pets. Static on wrapping paper and glitter are animal magnets." Bill's eyes went to the cake through the window; chocolate tended to dissolve plans into sticky priorities. He kicked the duffel. Molly added, "We also need escape routes: porch, cape, rooftops. And a pretense for parents to go outside." Bill said, "Fine. I'll bring the cape, you bring the note and the kettle. We count to three and vanish." Molly said, "Also, chocolate cake is a weapon." They smiled like thieves choosing a toy over a heist and slid into the house beneath a banner that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY, as if nothing so theatrical had ever happened before.