Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9YCG1JVCSW4VTW0FPM3H4

Molly balanced a party hat on her head like a crown of low ambition. Bill unfolded a map of the living room like it was an archaeological site. They peered at the invitation taped to a lamp and at the schedule printed in glitter. Outside, a bouncy castle hummed with the energy of a small galaxy; inside, a pile of presents gleamed under a banner that said YOU'RE SIX. The plan required choreography, timing, and the kind of improvisation that only professional light-fingered romantics possess. Molly traced routes with a purple finger and pronounced every obstacle either a hazard or an opportunity. The cake table was the altar, the piñata a possible smoke screen, the parent herd a flock to be gently nudged aside using corny jokes and balloon science. Bill practiced his most distracted face and his least suspicious silhouette. He tried on a smile that could be described as apologetically sheepish. They rehearsed the handoff: Molly would pocket small packages while Bill engaged the adults in an emergency about a mysteriously missing napkin. They argued over the ethics of stealing from birthdays until they agreed that presents at a packed party functioned like communal surplus, a surplus they felt morally equipped to redistribute into their keeping. Their van waited around the corner, filled with decoy boxes, spare ribbons and a potato in case a solemn guard dog needed convincing that breakfast had already been taken. At one point Molly consulted a list titled Things That Could Go Wrong and found it suspiciously short; Bill added "clown with interpretive juggling" and underlined it, then crossed it out because underlining could escalate suspicion. The plan culminated in a timed distraction: a chorus of faux kids singing off-key while a single balloon drifted theatrically toward the chandelier. They practiced the getaway step, a shuffle designed to look like two relatives excusing themselves for a sudden craft project. As the first paper plate of cake slid into view beneath a truck of gift wrap, Molly clicked her tongue, and the heist of the party felt less like crime and more naughty theater. Molly: "Okay, Bill, listen. We creep in through the back door when the cake song hits zero, glide past the piñata, and exit with the loot before anyone notices the sugar coma." Bill: "What about the toddlers? They scream like foghorns trained by sharks." Molly: "Distract them with balloons. They can't resist helium science experiments." Bill: "You mean the helium trick from last time? The one that turned Mrs. Dunlop's poodle into a soprano?" Molly: "Exactly. Also, we swap genuine gifts with decoy gift boxes from the trunk. No tiny toy will be left behind." Bill: "And the cake?" Molly: "We leave a slice with a note: 'To whom it may cake.' That's irony and distraction in one." Bill: "Do we really have to use puns?" Molly: "Yes. Puns lower suspicion by at least twenty percent, statistically unverified but charming." Bill: "Fine. 'Operation Cakewalk' then. No musical chairs with clowns."