Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAHD3J8BC3Q188ZMGFM48G

Balloons bobbed like tiny convicted felons against floral wallpaper. A half-deflated dinosaur piñata slumped over a folding chair. The coffee table glittered with presents wrapped in heroic cartoon paper, an array of sugar-powered chaos. Molly crouched behind the sofa, glitter on her elbow and the expression of someone who loved capers but hated finger paint. Bill lingered in the hallway with a clipboard he'd once filched from an estate agent, pressing his lips to smother the urge to giggle. They had rehearsed routes, dessert schedules, and a stealthy penguin waddle. Outside, children shrieked with that particular victorious indifference only small humans can muster. Their plan: distract, divide, retrieve, vanish. The ethics had been argued over stale donuts and an oddly persuasive TED clip about redistribution. Now the only outstanding question was execution — and whether clown cake would protest if prodded. Molly checked her pockets; Bill checked his conscience and watch. Molly: Okay, are you ready? Bill: Born ready, except for existential crises. Molly: This is not the time for philosophy, Bill. Bill: It will help with moral cover. Molly: Step one: distraction. You be the magician. Bill: I folded a hundred napkins into hats, how suspicious can that be? Molly: Suspicious enough for me to interrupt mid-trick and grab a gift. Bill: Quicker than a sugar-fueled toddler noticing missing loot? Molly: We'll need a diversion big enough to hide our hands full of toys. Bill: Clown cake explosion? Molly: If the clown cake explodes, you are responsible. Also, cleanup. Bill: I will accept responsibility but not napkins as restitution. Molly: Step two: route. Two doors in, left past the coat rack. Bill: Note: Mrs. Patel's potted fern is alarmed easily. Molly: Duck under the streamers, avoid glitter bombs, then corners. Bill: What about the dog? He ate my divorce papers last year, angry liabilities. Molly: Mrs. Jenkins's pug is asleep on a beanbag. Approach like a respectful cat burglar. Bill: Do we have a grab bag system? TwoPeople-OneBag? Molly: No, we have decoy backpacks with empty boxes. Appear generous, leave lighter. Bill: Ingenious. Also what about tiny toys that squeak? Molly: Squeakers get wrapped in duct tape and sarcasm. Bill: Sarcasm is my specialty. I have a certificate I made at home. Molly: Step three: extraction. One at a time, cozy like sandwich thieves. Bill: Sandwich thieves are the noblest of criminals. Molly: Also we're monogamous about taking only gifts, not napkins or cake plates. Bill: Agreed. No napkin laundering, no cake laundering. Mostly because laundry machines fear me. Molly: Timing: sugar crash at four twenty. That gives us fifteen glorious minutes. Bill: Fifteen minutes to become folklore in nursery rhymes. Do we have exit routes? Molly: Two exits. One back door through the kitchen, muddy but faster. One window by the porch, requires finesse. Bill: Porch window it is. I brought a micro-screwdriver and my dignity. Molly: Leave the dignity near the fern. It's allergic to pride. Bill: Final plan: leave a Faux Santa note about cheerful redistribution, signed.