Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAHT2QXSQ0N78F5F95FKVH

Molly pressed her face to the apartment window that overlooked the suburban street, squinting at the explosion of balloons across the road. “That is not a party,” she said. “That is a fortress made of sugar and parental anxiety.” Bill adjusted the binoculars he’d stolen from a birdwatcher. “It’s a seven-year-old’s birthday, Molly. The most dangerous thing in there is gluten.” “Wrong,” she said. “The most dangerous thing in there is a piñata full of rage and sharpened candy.” He lowered the binoculars just enough to glance at her. “We’re professional thieves. We boosted a casino last month.” “We almost boosted a casino,” Molly corrected. “We did escape with a cake cart and three horrified magicians.” “Semantics,” Bill said. “Point is, we can handle a few hyper kids and some juice boxes.” “I’m more worried about the parents,” Molly said. “Look at them. They’ve got matching T-shirts. That’s a coordinated unit.” Bill peered again. “The shirts say ‘Team Ethan.’ How scary can Team Ethan be?” “Ever seen a dad who inflated twenty helium balloons by mouth?” she asked. “That is a man on the edge.” “We have a plan,” Bill said, tapping a notebook on the coffee table. “Phase one: infiltration. Phase two: distraction. Phase three: extraction of presents. Phase four: cake.” “Cake is not an official phase,” she said. “Cake is a fantasy.” “It’s a motivation strategy,” Bill said. “Alright. Phase one. We go in as entertainers.” Molly stared. “Entertainers?” “Kids love clowns,” he said. “I refuse,” she said. “After last time? That child tried to exorcize me with a pool noodle.” “Fine,” Bill said. “Not clowns. Magicians.” “We stole from magicians,” she said. “They will sense us. Magicians can smell betrayal.” “Face painters?” he tried. “They will ask for unicorns,” she said. “I can draw exactly two things: a circle, and disappointment.” Bill flipped a page. “Okay, okay. New angle. We are… parents.” “Of which child?” she asked. “We look like we’re auditioning for a crime documentary, not a PTA meeting.” “Parents are exhausted,” Bill said. “No one questions an exhausted person at a kids’ party. They just hand them a slice of pizza and avoid eye contact.” She considered the yard again. “We need costumes. I don’t own ‘parent.’ I own ‘has fled the scene.’” Bill pointed at the laundry basket. “Your beige cardigan. That screams ‘I have a mortgage.’” “That screams ‘I gave up on my dreams in 2012,’” she said, pulling it on. “What about you?” He held up a polo shirt with horizontal stripes. “This says ‘I listen to podcasts about grilling.’” “Perfect,” she said. “You will be invisible.” They headed for the door, then paused at the mirror. “Do I look like I love Ethan?” Molly asked. “You look like you’re late for soccer practice,” Bill said. “It’s uncanny.” They crossed the street, clutching a hastily wrapped empty shoebox. “Smile,” Bill muttered. “Parents always bring gifts.” “Why is ours so light?” she whispered. “We’ll say it’s educational,” he answered. “No one opens those during the party.” The yard gate creaked as they slipped through. A small boy in a superhero cape blocked their path, hands on hips. “Who are you?” he demanded. “We’re… Molly began, then faltered. “We’re Ethan’s cool aunt and uncle,” Bill said quickly. “I don’t have a cool aunt and uncle,” the boy replied. Molly leaned down. “Congratulations,” she said. “You do now.” The boy considered this, then shrugged. “There’s cake inside. Don’t touch my presents.” They watched him sprint away. “New Phase One,” Bill whispered. “Do not underestimate the tiny security guard.” “New Phase Two,” Molly said. “Steal his cape if everything goes wrong.” “That’s Phase Four,” Bill corrected. “Phase Three is still presents.” “Right,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s go rob Team Ethan.”