Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKABY43E7C74R8MZ09GRS72

The getaway car was a twelve-year-old minivan that still had fading unicorn stickers on the back window. It squatted at the curb outside the community center, its engine ticking and its interior smelling faintly of crayons and bad decisions. Inside, Molly had the blueprints spread across the dashboard: one crumpled flyer that read “HAPPY 7TH BIRTHDAY, BRAYDEN!” with a cartoon dinosaur vomiting confetti. Bill squinted at it. “This is not a blueprint. This is a war crime in font form.” “It’s all intel,” Molly said, tapping the flyer. “See? ‘Presents table by the stage.’ That’s our vault. ‘Face-painting in the corner.’ That’s our cover. ‘Magician at two.’ That’s our distraction slash alibi.” Bill peered past the steering wheel at the building. Through the glass doors he could see balloons bobbing and a cardboard standee that insisted SOMEONE IS TURNING SEVEN in letters loud enough to cause hearing loss. “Molly, are we seriously robbing a birthday party?” he asked. She adjusted her knit cap, which had sequins on it because it was the only one she could find at the thrift store. “We prefer the term ‘redistributing unearned wealth from the cake-rich to the cake-poor.’” “We don’t even like cake,” Bill said. “I like money that smells like cake,” Molly replied. “Focus. Timeline. Presents get dropped off 1:30 to two. Parents mingle, get sugar-high on frosting fumes. Kids are distracted by the bouncy castle. We slip in, grab the haul, slip out. Nobody cries. Except Brayden, but statistically he was going to cry anyway.” Bill watched a family walk in, arms loaded with brightly wrapped packages. The presents were enormous, the kind that suggested plastic vehicles with too many batteries and no off switch. “How are we even carrying all that?” he asked. “We can’t just stroll out with a rainbow tower of consumerism.” Molly held up a folded neon-yellow vest. “We go in as party staff. Authority vests. Nobody questions the vest.” “No one questions why the ‘party staff’ are forty-year-olds with criminal records and dead eyes?” “Parents are too tired to see red flags,” she said. “They see a vest, they see free childcare. Besides, you brought the clipboard, right?” He held it up reluctantly. “I feel like this is how I accidentally end up organizing a conga line.” “Then we conga out the door with the presents,” Molly said. “Win-win.” A gust of wind ruffled the heap of balloons tied to the rail outside. One balloon popped, a sharp crack like a gunshot. Bill flinched. “Okay, but kids,” he said. “They’re short, they’re sticky, they swarm. One of them latches onto my leg, starts calling me Uncle Bill, what do I do?” “You say, ‘Uncle Bill is on a very important present mission, champ,’ and you send him to the magician,” Molly said. “That guy’s got doves. Doves beat uncles every time.” “What if the magician talks to us?” Bill asked. “What if he does the thing where he’s like, ‘Pick a card, any card,’ and I panic and confess?” Molly stared at him. “Why would you confess to a magician?” “He’s already good at misdirection,” Bill said. “Feels like a slippery slope to mind control.” Molly folded the flyer, tucking it into her vest. “Listen, all we have to do is blend in. Smile. Nod. Say things like ‘Did you see Brayden’s face when he opened the dinosaur thing?’ even though we absolutely did not.” “We’re stealing the dinosaur thing,” Bill muttered. “Exactly,” she said. “We’ll see its face later.” The door of the community center swung open and a man in a polo shirt staggered out, dragging an enormous gift bag—big enough to hide at least three separate bad toys and one small adult. Molly’s eyes gleamed. “That bag,” she whispered. “That bag is destiny.” “Looks heavy,” Bill noted. “Presents add weight,” Molly said. “So does guilt. Thankfully, we don’t have that second one.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “And if we get caught?” “We return everything, blame it on a misunderstanding, say we were hired by Party Planner Stacy and there was a mix-up with the venue,” Molly said. “No one actually knows who Party Planner Stacy is. She’s like Bigfoot, but with a Pinterest board.” “And if they ask for her number?” Molly pulled a prepaid flip phone from her pocket. “Stacy’s on speed dial.” “You made up an entire fake party planner?” “Bill, this is not amateur hour,” she said. “We’re professionals. Of children’s parties. That’s worse, but still.” Music drifted faintly from inside: a pop song about friendship and vague empowerment. Children’s laughter rose and fell like seagulls circling dropped fries. Molly popped her door open. “Vests on. Smiles ready. Remember: we are here to make magical memories.” “And steal them,” Bill added, pulling on his vest. “Mostly steal them,” Molly agreed. “But with whimsy.”