Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA6PED1KHBRG58JGA0J8NM

Molly crouched behind the hydrangeas like a florist with a grudge, peering through the slats of the backyard fence. Beyond it, a children’s party raged in bright primary colors, the kind that made grown-ups feel like they’d been trapped inside a cereal box. A plastic unicorn bounced at the end of a rope. Somewhere, a whistle shrieked. Somewhere else, a child laughed with the unearned confidence of someone who’d never had their rent raised. Bill waddled up beside her, trying to look stealthy while carrying a folded step ladder under one arm and a helium balloon under the other. The balloon bobbed above his head like a guilty thought. “This is a terrible neighborhood for crime,” Molly whispered. “Everything’s well-lit and smells like sunscreen.” Bill tugged his beanie lower. “The balloon is camouflage. Everyone trusts balloons.” “They also trust clowns, and you look like you lost a fight with a donation bin.” Bill squinted through the fence. “Okay, there’s the gift table. Two folding tables. One tablecloth with cartoons. Classic. We go in, we go out.” Molly watched a dad in cargo shorts line up juice boxes like he was prepping for war. “We go in, we go out, and we don’t trip over a hula hoop and get beaten to death with a piñata stick.” Bill cleared his throat, offended. “I have excellent balance.” “You fell off a curb last week.” “It was an aggressive curb.” A gust of wind hit the fence and a paper plate slapped against it, frosting-side out, sliding down slowly like a crime scene reveal. Molly grimaced. She could see it now: a dozen gift bags in neat rows, tissue paper like colorful little flags surrendering in advance. Bill adjusted the ladder. “Timing. We do it during the magic show.” “There’s a magic show?” Bill nodded solemnly. “The flyer said ‘Amazing Randy.’ That’s either a magician or a man who owns too many capes.” Molly’s eyes tracked the backyard. A child sprinted past, shrieking, chased by another child holding a foam sword. The foam sword looked, in that moment, far more threatening than a real one. Bill leaned closer. “We walk in like entertainers. I’m Amazing Randy. You’re… my assistant.” Molly turned to him slowly. “Absolutely not. I am not being sawed in half for a box of Legos.” “No, no, assistant like… you hand me things.” “The last time I handed you things, you handed them to the police.” “That was one time,” Bill hissed. “And the officer asked nicely.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fine. If we’re entertainers, what’s our act?” Bill lifted the balloon proudly. “Balloon animals.” Molly stared. “You can’t make balloon animals.” “I can make balloon… statements. Long ones.” “Bill, the only thing you’ve ever twisted successfully is my patience.” He deflated a little, which was impressive considering the balloon remained fully inflated. “We could go in as the cake delivery.” “There’s already a cake. I can see it. It has a dinosaur on it with gumdrop eyes. It’s judging me.” Bill chewed his lip. “Plan B: we pretend we’re the charity that collects unwanted presents.” Molly raised an eyebrow. “That’s called stealing.” “No,” Bill said, offended again. “This is stealing with paperwork.” Molly watched the gift table like it might sprout legs and escape. Parents mingled nearby, laughing too loudly, the way adults do when they’ve been told there will be “games.” A woman set down a tray of mini hot dogs and looked around with the alertness of someone who’d been burned by toddlers before. Molly pointed. “Security problem. The gift table is in direct line of sight of the snack station. Every parent here will orbit snacks like hungry moons.” Bill nodded, solemn as a general. “Then we create a distraction.” Molly’s gaze slid to the inflatable bounce house, which pulsed gently like a breathing animal. “What kind of distraction?” Bill smiled. “I release the balloon. It causes chaos.” “How.” “It floats away,” Bill said, as if describing a riot. “People look up. Necks crane. Civilization collapses.” Molly grabbed the balloon string and yanked it down. “Your distraction is weather.” Bill shrugged. “Okay, okay. Better distraction. I go in, I start an argument about whether the dinosaur cake is historically accurate.” “That’s actually not the worst thing you’ve said today,” Molly admitted. Bill brightened. “While I argue, you sweep the presents.” Molly glanced at him. “How do I ‘sweep’ thirty gift bags without looking like I’m robbing a children’s party?” Bill tapped the step ladder. “We bring a big bin. Like we’re cleaning.” Molly exhaled slowly. In the backyard, Amazing Randy—an actual man in a cape—stepped into view and raised a wand. The kids shrieked in anticipation, a sound Molly had only previously heard from car alarms. Molly tightened her gloves. “All right,” she said. “We go in as party cleaners. You start the dinosaur debate. I bag the loot.” Bill swallowed. “And if someone asks who hired us?” Molly looked him dead in the eye. “Smile. Point at the birthday kid. And say, ‘He did.’” Bill blinked. “That feels morally complicated.” Molly slapped the fence lightly. “Bill, we’re stealing presents from children.” “Right,” Bill said, squaring his shoulders. “No more moral nuance. Let’s commit to the bit.” They rose together, the ladder creaking like it knew what they were about to do and disapproved on principle. Molly peered once more through the fence at the rows of bright gift bags, and for a brief moment she almost felt guilty. Then a child screamed, “HE TURNED THE SCARF INTO A SNAKE!” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Okay,” she muttered. “Nobody deserves that kind of magic. Move.”