Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9XP2K5E8AKQWHT2778N6M

Under a flickering streetlamp, Molly and Bill crouched behind a dented dumpster outside the Bright Star Community Center, where twinkling lights stitched the night together with glittery noise. A loudspeaker was testing, the strains of a toy-scarred carol seeping through the walls. The party inside hummed with kids and cake and the promise of a mountain of wrapped gifts. Molly tapped a notebook they had duct-taped to her knee, a map of nonsense with arrows pointing toward a stage, a kitchen, and an exit labeled Somewhere East that might be a corridor. Bill pretended to inspect his fingernails but really watched the security guard shift weight from one hip to the other, humming to himself. They spoke in whispers that sounded louder than a brick through a window in a cartoon. Molly: We go in when the carols peak, Bill. When the room thinks it’s a chorus, we become the silence. Bill: Silence is fine, but I’d rather be wearing a hat that says “Hello, Present!” in glitter. Molly: Step one, we blend with the volunteers. Step two, we locate the gift table without making eye contact with the present police. Bill: The “present police” sounds very official. Do they wear badges shaped like gift boxes? Molly: Focus. We’ll stroll in with a tray of cupcakes to disguise our grand entrance. Bill: Cupcakes as camouflage. I like it. Do they come in explosive sprinkles? Molly: Stop joking. If we’re spotted, we pretend we’re part of the party committee. Our job is to supervise a surprise piñata that nobody asked for. Bill: A piñata of questionable existence. I’m already swinging at bureaucracy. Molly: We’ll glide past the cake, then switch the tablecloths to a gentler shade of suspicious. Bill: And if a kid asks what we’re doing, we tell them we’re performing a social experiment in generosity. Molly: No, we tell them we’re undercover elves who mislaid the reindeer. It confuses adults and buys time. Bill: I can see the headlines: “Elf Capers: Present Pros Never Left the Hall.” It’s catchy. Molly: There’s a back stair, they say. Quiet. Respectful. Like a school librarian with a broom. Bill: A broom that doubles as a grappling hook? Molly: We’re not turning this into a fantasy trailer. It’s a simple, silly caper. Bill: Right. Silly. And legal in its vibes as long as no one gets hurt and every kid leaves with a memory and a band-aid from the laughter. Molly: We’ll grab the smallest gift first. The one that looks like it belongs to a child who has everything already and is sad about it. Bill: The anti-grand-prix of presents. I love it. Molly: Then we back out the same way we came in, humming “Jingle Bells” until we forget the plan. Bill: And if the alarm goes off? Molly: Then we hum louder, blend with the party, and pretend we’re part of a flash mob of very enthusiastic clowns. Bill: I can picture it. The two of us, draped in tinsel, escorted by a chorus of delighted chaos. Molly: It’s not ideal, but it’s ours. Our little glittering misfit heist. Bill: A plan that shines like a burnt-out star and somehow makes the world chuckle. Molly: Then we do it. Quiet as snow, loud as laughter, and gone before anyone finishes singing. Bill: Done. Let’s walk in wearing the smiles we borrowed from strangers, and hope the universe doesn’t notice we’re not supposed to be here. Molly: It notices. It always does. But tonight we’re following the music and the sparkles, not the rules. Now, on three— Bill: Three. Molly: Go. They rose together, shoulders brushing with the tremor of a plan that is half ridiculous, half hopeful, and all theirs, as the party’s glow swallowed their silhouettes and the music swelled like a chorus of indignant snow.