Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA79F6VE5AH52AAR02MZDP

Molly crouched behind the hedge like it was a tactical bunker instead of Mrs. Peabody’s hydrangeas. Through a gap in the leaves, the backyard was a riot of pastel balloons and shrieking children, the air vibrating with sugar and bad decisions. A cardboard unicorn loomed over the picnic table, its smile too wide, as if it also knew something criminal was about to happen. Bill lay beside her on the damp grass, binoculars pressed to his face, the lenses fogging with each anxious breath. Their getaway scooter—because “van” implied dignity—waited at the curb with a laundry basket strapped to the back like a budget jewel case. Molly adjusted the strap of her tote bag, which contained a crowbar, zip ties, and a roll of unicorn-themed wrapping paper she’d bought in the name of “blending in.” Bill lowered the binoculars. “Okay. Presents are under the gazebo. Pink tablecloth. Like a crime scene, but with more glitter.” Molly kept her eyes on the yard. “We’re stealing gifts from children, Bill. I want you to say it out loud so your conscience can stretch first.” Bill swallowed. “We’re stealing gifts from children.” “Good. Now say it with confidence.” “We’re stealing gifts from children,” he tried again, as if reading a weather report. Molly nodded. “Better. Remember, we’re not monsters. We’re redistributing. From the tiny to the slightly taller.” Bill peeked again. “There’s a clown.” Molly’s gaze snapped to him. “A hired clown or a freelance nightmare?” “Hired. He’s doing balloon animals.” “Then he’s distracted. That’s our window.” Bill frowned. “You said you had standards. Clowns are a standard.” “My standards are flexible,” Molly said, watching a kid sprint past holding a plate of cake like it was evidence. “Besides, we’re not hurting anyone. We’re just relieving them of objects they will forget by Tuesday.” Bill’s knee was bouncing. “We need a plan that doesn’t involve me sprinting past a bouncy castle. Last time I got stuck in one, it took three dads and a garden rake.” Molly reached into her tote and produced two party hats: one blue with rockets, one pink with a cartoon cat wearing sunglasses. “Disguises.” Bill stared. “That’s not a disguise. That’s an admission.” Molly jammed the cat hat onto her head. The elastic snapped against her chin with a humiliating twang. “In a children’s party, looking ridiculous is camouflage. Nobody notices ridiculous. It’s the background noise.” Bill hesitated, then put on the rocket hat. It sat crooked, like it had given up on him already. “What’s our cover story?” Molly pointed at the gazebo. “We’re the Gift Safety Inspectors. We’ve received reports of unsafe levels of joy.” Bill blinked. “That’s… not a job.” “Neither is ‘professional thief,’ and yet you have a laminated card.” Bill touched his wallet defensively. “It’s for networking.” A shriek rose from the yard as the clown produced a balloon sword and immediately lost control of it. The children swarmed like piranhas in party shoes. Molly leaned closer. “We go in when they do the piñata. Everyone faces the same direction. Chaos. Candy. Parents filming. No one guards the gifts.” Bill nodded slowly. “How do we move them all? There’s like… a mountain.” Molly tapped the laundry basket strapped to the scooter. “We load fast and smart. Prioritize volume. Big boxes. Anything shaped like a dinosaur. Dinosaurs are expensive.” Bill squinted. “What about cards?” Molly scoffed. “Cards are just money’s boring cousin. We’re here for tangible despair.” Bill took a breath, then another, like he was about to dive underwater. “Molly, what if the birthday kid sees us?” Molly softened, just a fraction. “Then we smile, wave, and tell him we’re taking the presents to the hospital.” Bill looked horrified. “That’s worse.” Molly shrugged. “It’s plausible. People love hospitals. They don’t ask follow-up questions because they want to feel generous.” From the yard came the unmistakable crack of a stick meeting papier-mâché, followed by cheers and the frantic rustle of candy raining down. Parents lifted phones like offerings to the gods of social media. Molly stood, brushing leaves from her knees. “Showtime.” Bill stood too, wobbling under the weight of his own doubt. “If we get caught, I’m blaming the clown.” Molly tightened her grip on the tote strap. “If we get caught, Bill, we’re blaming capitalism.” They jogged toward the gate, two grown adults in party hats, trying to look like they belonged in a world where everything was bright and harmless. The hydrangeas shivered behind them, scandalized, as they slipped into the backyard, smiling like thieves with manners.