Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKADWB1XAY40S3R35K7VNY5

Night hung over the town like a dropped hat, and Molly and Bill crouched behind a stack of folding chairs in the community hall where a birthday party would bloom for one afternoon and vanish forever into sugar and noise. The music stopped at odd intervals, as if it were listening for permission to play again. Molly wore a ridiculous cape she swore made her run faster, while Bill carried a notebook that looked like a crime novel accidentally left on the bus. They spoke in the low gravity of people who know they are about to break something they can’t fix with apologies. Molly: This is going to be easy, if you believe in big sugar and small risks. Bill: If we pull this off, the party favors will owe us money in therapy. Molly: Remember, we’re gathering gifts, not bruising feelings or exhuming cake toppers. Bill: I brought a map, mostly drawn by a kid who loves crayons and chaos. Molly: Our job is stealth, style, and not getting sticky at the punch. Bill: We’ll enter through the back hall, slide past the pinata of doubt. Molly: And distract the crowd with a magician llama—Wait, that’s illegal, even for us. Bill: A decoy cupcake chorus, then the hats go missing. Molly: The presents aren’t going to know what hit them. Bill: Just grab the tallest stack, call it a sculpture, and walk. Molly: You keep saying 'grab the tallest stack' like that’s a plan. Bill: It’s a plan, poetic and risky. Outside, the wind wheezed through the gutter, pretending to be a grown-up breeze with a plan of its own. Inside, Molly and Bill tested each other’s nerves the way magicians test their sleeves, pulling hope and fear out at will. The party—still a rumor of streamers and a custard-scented ceiling—would arrive in two hours, and with it the children who believed in brave things and glittering ordeals. They watched the clock as if it were a suspicious witness, tapping the edge of a chair and imagining a soundtrack of squeaky shoes and soft laughter swelling the room. Molly traced a line along the hem of her cape, then shrugged. Bill pretended to be serious, then ruined the moment by whistling a tune that belonged in a cartoon chase. It was ridiculous, and somehow perfect for their brand of mischief. They spoke about nothing that could be copied, only about tone: how to appear confident without looking like two adults wearing borrowed costumes; how to vanish into confection and keep their consciences dim and polite. They joked about leaving a thank-you note for the kid who would wake up to a surprise of ordinary morning. The plan, such as it was, relied on luck, charm, and a stubborn refusal to take their nerves too seriously. If nothing else, they’d leave behind a memory more valuable than any gift: the tiny victory of thinking themselves clever, even as the partyboard lights flickered and the clock said go. Now.