Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA4RQXV36KW7R9MDVJ3N69

“Tell me again why we’re robbing a children’s party,” Bill whispered, hunched in the driver’s seat of the sputtering hatchback. “Because children have better taste than adults,” Molly said, peering through binoculars. “Also because adults wrap their gifts like they’re filing taxes. Kids? Bright paper. Easy to spot. Easy to stack.” “Easy to feel guilty about.” “Bill, you once stole an inflatable hot tub from a retirement home.” “That was a misunderstanding,” Bill said. “They were inflating it. I thought it was a balloon for me.” Molly lowered the binoculars. “Focus. Backyard. Pink bunting. Balloons shaped like unicorns. That’s our target.” “It’s a six-year-old’s birthday party.” “Exactly,” Molly said. “Six-year-olds don’t have guard dogs. They have glitter.” Bill shuddered. “Glitter is basically a guard dog. It never lets go.” “Which is why we wear the coveralls.” Bill tugged at his sleeve. “These are white. We’ll look like sad bakers.” “We’re going as party entertainers,” Molly said. “Look. I’ve got the clown nose.” Bill stared at it. “That’s not a clown nose. That’s a tomato.” “Tomato, clown nose, same level of dignity.” “And I’m supposed to be what? Your assistant tomato?” “You’re the magician,” Molly said, opening a bag and pulling out a cape. “You love capes.” “I love capes when I’m not committing felonies,” Bill said. “Also this cape is… sticky.” “That’s from the last job,” Molly said. “Don’t ask.” Bill squinted toward the yard. “There are parents. A lot of parents. And a woman with a clipboard. Clipboard women can smell nonsense.” “Clipboard women can smell fear,” Molly corrected. “So don’t be afraid.” “I’m wearing a sticky cape and a tomato.” “Confident,” Molly said. “Now, timeline. We arrive during ‘Pin the Tail on the Donkey.’ Everyone’s blindfolded. We slide behind the gift table. We swap the presents into our duffel.” Bill blinked. “We swap? With what?” Molly lifted another duffel. “Decoy gifts.” Bill unzipped it and pulled out a set of plain brown boxes. “These look like someone mailed disappointment.” “They’re filled,” Molly said. “Filled with what?” “Packing peanuts.” Bill frowned. “That’s not a gift. That’s evidence of a sad economy.” “Kids love peanuts,” Molly said. “Not styrofoam peanuts!” “They won’t open them there,” Molly said. “Parents take presents home. That’s the modern tradition. We exploit traditions. Like pirates.” Bill leaned back. “You made a plan that relies on parents being too tired to supervise their own child’s gifts.” Molly nodded. “Have you met parents?” Bill watched a dad in the yard trying to untangle a jump rope from a balloon string. “Fair.” Molly tapped the steering wheel. “Contingencies. If the clipboard woman questions us, you do a trick.” “I can’t do tricks,” Bill said. “You can,” Molly replied. “You make money disappear every month.” “That’s bills.” “Same concept. Now, your trick is: ‘Watch me pull a balloon animal from my hat.’” “I don’t have a hat.” Molly produced a top hat that still had a price tag. “Now you do.” Bill lifted it cautiously. “This is from a costume store.” “Yes.” “It says ‘Return within thirty days.’” “Good,” Molly said. “If we don’t get caught, we can return it.” Bill stared. “That’s your ethical line? Returning hats?” Molly sighed. “Bill, the key to crime is budgeting.” A shriek of laughter carried from the yard. Bill winced. “They’re playing musical chairs. Those kids are ruthless. One of them just shoved another kid into a shrub.” “Perfect,” Molly said. “Chaos is our ally.” Bill swallowed. “What about the birthday kid? What if she sees us taking her presents?” Molly’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “Then we improvise. We distract. We dazzle.” “With what,” Bill asked, “my sticky cape?” “With your mouth,” Molly said. “You talk. You’re great at talking.” “That’s because I panic,” Bill said. “Panic is my muse.” Molly popped the tomato on Bill’s nose. “Then let your muse do crowd work.” Bill sighed through his nose, which squeaked. “I can’t breathe. I’m being murdered by produce.” “Remember,” Molly said, opening the car door, “we’re entertainers first, thieves second.” Bill followed, muffled. “That’s not how job titles work.” Molly straightened her coveralls. “It is today. Now smile.” Bill tried. The tomato squeaked again. “If this goes wrong, I’m blaming you.” “If this goes right,” Molly said, slinging the duffel over her shoulder, “we’re blaming the magician.”