Run: 2026-02-16-01KHK9ZSTYV4MMGQ83GDGK8W1C

Molly pressed her nose to the upstairs apartment window, binoculars jammed to her face. Below, the community center glittered with balloons, streamers, and the faint aura of frosting-based chaos. Tiny costumed children darted around like sugar-fueled bees. “That’s at least thirty presents,” Molly said, not lowering the binoculars. “Maybe forty if the poor kid has divorced parents.” Bill shuffled through a duffel bag of suspiciously festive gear. “Relax. I brought extra rope in case of divorced parents.” “Rope,” she said dryly. “You know this is a birthday party, not a cathedral heist.” “Same principle,” Bill replied. “Less echo, more screaming. Anyway, what’s the security situation?” Molly lowered the binoculars. “One exhausted clown, two overcaffeinated parents, and a piñata shaped like a unicorn. Honestly, I’m not sure which one is the real threat.” “The unicorn,” Bill said immediately. “Always the unicorn. Where’s the present table?” “Back wall. Beneath that banner that says ‘Happy Sixth Birthday, Oliver.’ Big pile of colorful loot. Shiny paper. Glittery bows. It’s basically a dragon hoard with frosting.” Bill perked up. “Do you think Oliver’s cool with a redistribution of wealth message?” “Oliver,” Molly said, “just ate a blue cupcake with his entire face. He is not ready for nuanced socio-economic commentary.” Bill sighed. “So we’re the villains.” “We’re the off-brand Robin Hoods,” she said. “We steal from the rich parents, keep for the broke thieves.” “Technically,” Bill said, shouldering the duffel, “we are in desperate need of a new toaster.” “And rent, Bill. Don’t forget rent. Landlords get cranky when you offer them coupons and good vibes.” He rummaged in the bag and produced a floppy paper crown. “Disguise phase. You’re Aunt Molly. I’m Uncle Bill. We are very late and deeply apologetic.” Molly stared at the crown. “No one with this face passes for ‘Aunt Molly.’ This is a ‘weirdo you warn the kids about’ face.” “Nonsense,” Bill said. “You have a very nurturing glare. Here, take the casserole.” He handed her an empty foil-covered tray. “You brought an empty casserole dish?” she asked. “Optics,” he said. “We arrive looking like we contributed. We leave looking like we helped clean up. Also, the tray doubles as a defensive shield against cake.” Molly peeked out the window again. “Door’s propped open for arrivals. Present table’s by the bouncy castle. We go in, ‘Happy birthday, tiny stranger,’ drop the decoy gift, sweep the real ones into the rolling suitcase, and walk out like responsible adults with lower back problems.” “And if someone asks who we are?” Bill said. “We’re from Oliver’s soccer team.” “He’s six,” Bill pointed out. “He doesn’t have a soccer team.” “He does now,” she said. “Youth athletics starts early in this economy.” Bill zipped the duffel with a determined nod. “Alright. Worst case scenario, we’re forced to participate in party games until we can escape.” “I will go to prison,” Molly said, “before I play musical chairs with a pack of first graders.” “Good,” Bill replied. “Use that energy. Channel it. Fear of musical chairs is our fuel.” They headed for the stairs. Molly hesitated at the door. “If any kid cries, we abort.” “Define ‘cries,’” Bill said. “Like one tear, or full sprinkler system?” “Anything loud enough to attract a mom with a spreadsheet,” she said. “Those women have clipboards, Bill. Actual clipboards.” He paled. “Alright. In and out. No crying, no clipboards, no unicorn-related incidents.” “And if somebody asks us to help sing ‘Happy Birthday’?” “We sing,” Bill said firmly. “Loudly. Off-key. Like criminals with nothing left to lose.”