Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9ZHBY7PHSZB5DJ1DT4TZM

Behind a hydrangea taller than both their consciences, Molly unfolded a laminated schematic of a suburban battlefield: cul-de-sac here, inflatable castle there, cake table marked like a treasure chest luring pirates under six. The air smelled like grill smoke and sugar, the kind of scent that made adults nostalgic and children feral. Across the lawn, an arch of balloons trembled, as if already scared of being redistributed. Molly said, "We raid at two, during cake, when everyone sings and smears faces." The plan was elegant in the way a raccoon understands elegance: masks, quick hands, shiny prizes, a scurry to darkness. Bill adjusted his reflective vest until it sat with the authority of a municipal decree. He had penciled a moustache on with a marker you could smell from a county away. Bill said, "What about the magician, Molly, because magicians notice vanishing acts besides theirs often." Molly tapped the schematic, where she’d drawn a top hat with a frown. The key to any heist was to love your obstacles in order to predict their tantrums. Molly said, "He’s my cousin, unpaid, distracted by doves with stage fright and regret." A little wind skated across the birthday banner and chased confetti like gulls. On the deck, parents mingled with the hollow-eyed resolve of people who had negotiated with someone wearing a cardboard crown. A labradoodle the size of a beanbag patrolled the perimeter, nose wet with justice. Bill said, "Alright, but toddlers have bite radius and velocity scientists can only imagine today." Molly produced two whistles and a roll of caution tape that actually read Party Zone, which, in her experience, made adults step away as if rules had signed a treaty with chaos. She slid the tape around the side gate post, then reconsidered and pocketed it again. Molly said, "We wear reflective vests; adults assume authority near clipboards and whistles always." Bill’s clipboard did say Survey in doom-font. It made him feel powerful, which is to say, slightly nauseous. Bill said, "I brought a clipboard that says Survey; children fear surveys and spinach equally." Behind them, the decoy recycling bin awaited its destiny. It had wheels, a squeaky lid, and the smug look of a container that knew it was about to be filled with triumph. Molly said, "Good. The presents go here, into the decoy recycling bin labeled Compost." Bill leaned out for a peek. Mountains of wrapping paper glimmered like coral reefs; bows bristled like sea anemones ready to sting an aunt. The gift table looked load-bearing for the whole celebration. Bill said, "Is it ethical to compost a teddy bear, morally speaking, or logistically though." Molly thumped the bin with a knuckle and it thunked with destiny. Somewhere, a kazoo squealed bravely. Molly said, "We are liberating gifts from capitalist frosting; kids learn resilience and sharing." Bill blinked. He had once taken a seminar in moral philosophy and left early to steal a lampshade. Bill said, "Your ethics pamphlets read like ransom notes written by motivational posters on glitter." Molly opened a duffel: balloon pump, emergency wet wipes, a roll of glitter tape, two kazoos, and a tiny traffic cone labeled hold for cake. She checked her watch, as grave as an umpire about to ruin a summer. Molly said, "Distraction plan: balloon dog stampede, followed by juice-box embargo and temporary stickers." A distant chorus of happy-birthday rose and frayed, proof that civilians had entered the vulnerable chorus section. The labradoodle paused to consider birds. Bill said, "Exit route crosses pony rides; ponies judge, and I cannot handle judgment tonight." Molly patted his shoulder like a general knighting a very worried knight. Somewhere in her head, a stopwatch clicked. Across the lawn, innocence stacked itself in bright boxes and bows, and the afternoon sun put a halo on larceny. They breathed in, synchronized with frosting molecules, and moved.