Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA5EWRQZHCC4XFG9VNF6Y7

Molly stood on tiptoe in the cul-de-sac, balancing a bag of chiffon scarves she'd stolen from a charity shop earlier. She tasted neon balloon rubber and overheard laughter leaking out from behind hedges. Bill crouched beside her like a raccoon with ambition, checking a list on a phone with one gloved finger. They had rehearsed this caper over coffee, candy, and a map of the neighborhood drawn on a napkin. Tonight's job: a children's party on Spruce Avenue, dozen wrapped treasures stacked like a small, suspicious mountain under a banner that said HAPPY FIFTH BIRTHDAY in glitter letters. Molly adjusted her mask—a strip of black felt she'd cut with theatrical precision—and whispered about timing, obstacles, and the moral elasticity necessary for their profession. Bill pointed at a porch light that flickered and claimed he could disable it with a remote control he'd bought at a hardware store. They examined the route: hedge, fence, side gate, mailbox, and a friendly dog whose name was apparently Sir Wiggles. Their plan involved distraction, a generous helping of charm, and a smoke machine. They laughed at their own professionalism. They made contingency plans for toddlers, for cake, and for Aunt Linda who always checked gift tags twice. Above them, a glow of fairy lights and the scent of frosting promised riches and sticky fingers. Molly tapped a watch and smiled. They practiced slipping through curtains, untying bows like surgeons, and whispering fake birthday wishes to lull any suspicious parents into complacency with theatrical flair. Molly: Are you sure about the dog? Bill: Sir Wiggles seems staged, like a furry decoy placed by fate or an overzealous aunt. Molly: And the smoke machine? It's enormous and powered by questionable theatrical dignity. Bill: Dignity, yes, but also smoke; distractions work when children are temporarily convinced they've summoned a dragon. Molly: You practiced your 'surprised uncle' face? Bill: Constantly. I can go from mild confusion to heartfelt admiration in under six seconds. Molly: What about Aunt Linda? Bill: We label every box "From the Petting Zoo." Who questions a petting zoo for a five-year-old? Molly: Your remote, then. Does it actually work, or did you buy it from a discount spy novel? Bill: It has three buttons: dim, doom, and disco. I promise discretion on doom. Molly: And the tiny hands? The sugar-high scouts circling like celebratory pigeons? Bill: We time it between cake and gift unwrapping. That window is fifteen chaotic minutes ripe for plunder. Molly: You cut the headlights program? The porch light kills stealth like a spotlight on an amateur. Bill: I have a button labeled "Do Not Press" which I will not press unless it improves the plan. Molly: What if a toddler insists the gifts belong to them? They are tiny legal entitites with ferocious wills. Bill: We return an empty balloon and a sincere apology note signed "Uncle Bill and Friend Molly." Nobody opens complaints over balloons. Molly: Fine, but if glitter escapes, we are using the emergency glitter protocol tonight.