Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9WWFGGZ51PXVGC53X70EJ

“I’m telling you, Bill, it’s the perfect score,” Molly whispered, flattening a crinkled invitation against the dashboard light. “‘Captain Cal’s Seventh Birthday Extravaganza.’ Do you hear that? Extravaganza. That’s rich people talk for ‘too many presents.’” Bill squinted at the glittery pirate font. “It’s a children’s party.” “Correct,” Molly said. “Children are terrible at inventory management. They open a box, squeal, discard the packaging like a raccoon, and five minutes later nobody remembers what came from where.” Bill chewed the end of a licorice stick like it owed him money. “I’m not stealing from kids, Molly.” “We’re not stealing from kids,” Molly said. “We’re stealing from their parents. Who are, statistically, adults.” Bill frowned. “The presents are for the kids.” “The presents are for the kids in the same way the buffet is for the guests,” Molly said. “Technically true, emotionally complicated.” Bill pointed at the map she’d drawn on a napkin. “Explain again why we’re wearing pirate costumes.” “Because it’s a pirate-themed party,” Molly said. “The invitation says ‘Dress like a scallywag or walk the plank.’ We’ll blend in. Nobody questions pirates. They’re historically untrustworthy.” Bill tugged at his black bandana. “I look like a substitute gym teacher who got lost at Spirit Halloween.” “Perfect,” Molly said. “Authority adjacent. Adults will avoid eye contact. Now, the plan: we arrive at two, during ‘Treasure Hunt Time.’ That’s when all the children are outside, screaming at shrubbery.” Bill nodded slowly. “And then we go inside and… what? Scoop up toys?” Molly tapped the napkin. “Step one: enter through the side gate with the gift bags. Step two: locate the gift mountain.” Bill blinked. “Gift mountain?” “It’s a thing,” Molly said. “People stack presents into a festive pyramid like they’re building a tiny economy. Step three: we transfer the presents into our decoy container.” Bill looked around the car. “Our what container?” Molly leaned down and popped the trunk with a smug flourish. “Behold.” Bill stared at the enormous cardboard chest she’d painted gold. “That is… a pirate chest.” “Exactly,” Molly said. “A ‘prop.’ We stroll out carrying a chest and everyone thinks we’re party entertainment.” Bill rubbed his forehead. “We are not hired entertainment.” “We can be,” Molly said. “If anyone asks, we’re ‘interactive piracy consultants.’” Bill sighed. “What if the parents recognize us?” “Bill,” Molly said, “we are middle-aged nobodies in pirate hats. That’s basically every dad at a themed party.” Bill picked up a plastic cutlass from the glove compartment. “Okay. But logistics. The presents are wrapped. How do we know which ones are valuable?” Molly smiled. “Weight. Shape. And my sixth sense for expensive parenting. If a box has an apple on it, it’s mine. If it rattles like a thousand tiny pieces, it’s either Lego or a lawsuit waiting to happen.” Bill lowered his voice. “And the cards? They’ve got names.” “We keep the cards,” Molly said. “Then it looks like the birthday kid misplaced things. Classic child behavior.” Bill narrowed his eyes. “That feels… evil.” “It’s mischievous,” Molly corrected. “Evil is what the clown does to balloon animals. We’re just reallocating resources.” Bill glanced at the invitation again. “It says there’s a piñata.” Molly’s gaze sharpened. “Oh, good. Distraction. When the piñata goes up, every adult becomes a documentarian and every child becomes feral. That’s our exit.” Bill held up his licorice. “What about the dog? There’s always a dog.” Molly nodded solemnly. “I accounted for the dog. I bought artisanal peanut butter treats shaped like tiny parrots.” Bill’s eyebrows rose. “Artisanal.” “They were on sale,” Molly said quickly. “Don’t make it weird.” Bill exhaled, staring at the pirate chest like it might bite. “So we just… walk out with a chest full of stolen joy.” Molly adjusted his bandana until it looked slightly less tragic. “We walk out with a chest full of unopened consumer goods.” Bill paused. “And if they stop us?” Molly handed him an eyepatch. “Then you say, ‘Arrr, permission to transport the booty,’ and you keep walking like you belong.” Bill put on the eyepatch and stared at himself in the rearview mirror. “I can’t believe I’m about to commit a felony dressed as a budget pirate.” Molly opened the car door. “Not a felony. A themed redistribution event.” Bill followed, muttering, “Captain Cal better appreciate this.” Molly grinned. “He will. He just won’t know it.”