Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKACX196D590KPJK8ZW5AS0

Molly crouched behind the hedge like a disgruntled garden gnome, peering through the slats of the white picket fence. Beyond it, a backyard throbbed with color: balloons bobbing, streamers fluttering, a plastic pirate ship on the lawn taking on a crew of sugar-crazed six-year-olds. A table sagged under bowls of chips and a cake shaped like a unicorn that looked too judgmental to eat. Bill adjusted the strap of his duffel bag, which squeaked like it was already confessing. “Okay,” he whispered, “confirm the intel. This is a child’s party?” Molly didn’t look away. “It’s a gift repository with frosting security.” Bill craned his neck. “I see parents.” “Decoys,” Molly said. “They’re here for socializing. The real guards are the kids. Small, fast, no fear of consequences.” Bill watched a child sprint past with a foam sword, screaming, and shivered. “I don’t like jobs where the enemy is sticky.” Molly tapped the fence post twice, their signal for Focus, which Bill always interpreted as Panic Later. “We go in during the piñata. The adults will be busy filming vertically. The kids will be busy assaulting papier-mâché.” Bill frowned. “And the presents?” Molly nodded toward a corner under a pop-up canopy. A pile of gift bags sat there like a brightly colored mountain range, tissue paper waving like surrender flags. “They’re unattended, except for the golden retriever. But I’ve got a plan for him.” Bill stared at the dog, which was sitting upright, tongue out, wearing a little party hat with the dignity of a mayor. “Bribery?” “Diplomacy.” Molly produced a strip of bacon from her pocket as casually as a magician producing a rabbit. “Dogs respect pork.” Bill lifted his eyebrows. “You had bacon in your pocket.” Molly finally glanced at him. “Bill, I have a lot of things in my pockets. Don’t ask questions that lead to inventory.” A shriek of delight erupted as someone wheeled out the piñata: a rainbow llama with dead eyes and an expression of resigned fate. The kids formed a chaotic line. Parents raised phones like lighters at a concert. Bill took a breath. “So what’s my role? Besides morally spiraling.” “You’re the distraction,” Molly said. Bill blinked. “I thought the piñata was the distraction.” “You’re the second distraction. Redundancy is professionalism.” Bill leaned closer. “How am I distracting?” Molly’s gaze flicked to the inflatable bounce house, where children ricocheted like popcorn. “You’re going to go in as… entertainment.” Bill’s mouth opened, then closed. “Entertainment? I don’t juggle.” “You can,” Molly said. “With enough confidence, anything is juggling.” Bill looked down at his own hands, as if meeting them for the first time. “Molly, I can barely hold a conversation.” “Perfect,” she said. “You’ll be a clown.” Bill recoiled. “No. Absolutely not. I have boundaries.” Molly pointed at the gift bags. “Those are mostly toy boxes. Some are electronics. One of them is definitely a tablet. Imagine it, Bill. A tablet. With no fingerprints on it yet.” Bill swallowed. “I do like clean tech.” “Then put on the wig.” “I don’t have a wig.” Molly reached into her pocket again and produced a frizzy, rainbow wig like it had been living in there rent-free for years. Bill stared at it with betrayal. “You’re kidding,” he said. “I never kid on a job,” Molly replied. “Children kid. We steal.” Bill took the wig between two fingers like it might bite. “This smells like regret.” “That’s just your future,” Molly said, sliding the fence gate open a crack. “Now go. Wander in. Ask where the birthday child is. Make a balloon animal. Something that says ‘I am harmless and possibly insured.’” Bill hesitated. “What if someone recognizes me?” Molly gave him a flat look. “From what, Bill? Your award-winning career in petty theft?” He sighed, pulled the wig over his hair, and instantly looked like a disappointed parrot. “If I die out there, take my browser history and burn it.” “Touching,” Molly said. She pressed the bacon into his palm. “Use this if the dog advances.” “The dog advances,” Bill repeated, as if the phrase belonged in military briefings. Molly cinched her gloves. “On my mark. Piñata swings, parents cheer, you honk an invisible horn with your soul, I sweep the presents. We’re gone before the llama hits the ground.” Bill squared his shoulders, wobbling with dread. “We’re robbing children.” Molly’s eyes softened for half a second. “We’re redistributing. Besides, they’ll get more. They always do.” A kid screamed, “HIT IT HARDER!” The llama trembled under the first blow. Molly nodded. “Mark.” Bill stepped through the gate, forcing a smile so wide it bordered on tragic. “Hello, tiny citizens!” he called, voice cracking. Several children turned, assessing him with the cold focus of sharks. The golden retriever spotted him too, ears perked, sensing bacon and chaos. Molly slipped in behind him, low and swift, and the gift mountain waited, bright and clueless, as the party roared on.