Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKA9TPQYAA29WVAHZMYE877

Molly crouched behind the hedge like a professional, which mostly meant she had committed to the discomfort instead of complaining out loud. Through the leaves she watched the Johnsons’ backyard shimmer with pastel balloons and the kind of optimism only found in places where people believed piñatas were a good idea. Bill lay beside her, his black hoodie already collecting burrs like it was magnetized. He held a clipboard because he’d read somewhere that authority was ninety percent stationery. “Okay,” Molly whispered, “we are not stealing from children.” Bill blinked. “We’re stealing from presents.” “That’s stealing from children with extra steps.” He adjusted the clipboard. “Technically it’s stealing from parents. The kids are just… the beneficiaries.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve been reading ethics blogs again.” “I’m trying to grow as a criminal,” Bill hissed. “We hit the gift table, we’re in and out. No trauma. No tears.” Molly pointed with two fingers. “There is literally a clown doing balloon surgery right now. That’s already trauma. We’re just… redistributing unopened merchandise.” Bill peered through the hedge. The gift table sat under a plastic gazebo, draped in a cartoon tablecloth where smiling dinosaurs invited everyone to party like there wasn’t a mortgage. Thirty presents, at least. Bags, boxes, one suspiciously large sack shaped like a beanbag chair. “Problem,” Bill murmured. “Gift table is supervised by that woman in the fanny pack.” “The fanny pack is the final boss,” Molly agreed. “We need a distraction.” Bill’s face brightened with the dangerous confidence of a man with a plan and no shame. “I can go in as a magician.” “You can’t even make your keys disappear without losing them for a week.” “I have a cape.” Molly exhaled slowly, counting to five, because she’d promised her probation officer she was working on impulse control. “No capes. What else?” Bill tapped the clipboard. “We go in as caterers. People trust anyone carrying trays.” Molly looked him up and down. “Do we have trays?” Bill held up the clipboard like it was close enough. “We have this.” “Fantastic,” she said. “We’ll serve hors d’oeuvres off paperwork.” In the yard, a chorus of children shrieked as the clown produced a balloon sword. The fanny-pack woman applauded hard enough to qualify as cardio. Molly shifted her weight. The hedge snapped a twig. Bill froze. “Was that you?” “It was the hedge,” Molly said. “Hedges are loud. That’s why rich people have them.” They watched a dad in cargo shorts haul a cooler past the gift table. For a moment, the fanny pack turned away to argue with a woman holding a tray of cupcakes like a shield. Molly’s eyes sharpened. “Window. Ten seconds.” Bill swallowed. “Ten?” “Eight, if you breathe that loud.” They slid out from the hedge, hunched and purposeful. Molly carried a stack of empty gift bags she’d “borrowed” from a craft store clearance bin; Bill carried a roll of dinosaur-themed wrapping paper like it was contraband. “Smile,” Molly muttered. “We belong.” Bill pasted on what he thought was a friendly grin and what looked, in practice, like a hostage negotiation. A child ran past them, screaming, “I’M A T-REX,” and Bill flinched as if threatened by prehistoric litigation. “Focus,” Molly said. “Gift table. Sweep left to right. Heavy items first.” Bill nodded too much. “Do we take the beanbag-sack thing?” “We take whatever fits in the van and doesn’t beep.” They reached the table. Molly’s hands moved fast, sliding boxes into bags with the smooth confidence of someone who’d spent years training for the Olympics of bad decisions. Bill picked up a present and read the tag. “This one says ‘To: Liam.’” Molly whispered, “Don’t personalize the loot.” “It feels rude,” Bill said, stuffing it in anyway. “Like I should write a thank-you note.” “Write it in your head.” The fanny-pack woman turned back. Molly hissed, “Abort.” Bill panicked and grabbed the nearest thing—an enormous glittery gift bag with tissue paper like a fireworks accident. It wobbled as he lifted it. Something inside clinked. Molly’s eyes widened. “Careful!” Bill tried to steady it, but the bag tore and a bowling ball rolled out onto the grass, black and shiny, with “HAPPY 7TH!” painted in cheerful letters. Every child stopped. The clown’s smile collapsed into a thoughtful frown, like he was reconsidering his career choices. Bill whispered, “Why does a seven-year-old have a bowling ball?” Molly grabbed his sleeve. “Move, magician.” They backed away briskly, bags bulging, Bill trying to conceal the bowling ball by cradling it like an infant. Behind them, a kid shouted, “MY BOWLING BALL!” with the righteous fury of someone who’d been waiting his whole short life to accuse an adult. Molly didn’t run. Professionals didn’t run. She merely walked very fast, through the side gate, dragging Bill and his glittery evidence into the street. Once they reached the van, Bill wheezed, “We got… most of them.” Molly slammed the doors. “Next time we rob a bank.” Bill wiped his brow. “Banks don’t have clowns.” “Exactly,” Molly said, starting the engine. “That’s why they’re safer.”