Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAJ49442YT4BJX2EYNH8QR

The van’s engine ticked as it cooled, sounding guilty. Streamers flapped from the maple tree across the street, neon plastic tails cracking in the breeze. On the front lawn, a bouncy castle shaped like a dragon inhaled and exhaled, snorting little puffs of artificial smoke every few seconds. Molly watched the inflatable beast with a thief’s appraisal and a birthday clown’s unease. “Just to confirm,” she said, drumming gloved fingers on the dash, “we’re really robbing a six-year-old’s party.” Bill adjusted his binoculars, elbows planted on the dashboard, expression grave. “Technically, we’re robbing twenty-six six-year-olds simultaneously. Efficiency, Molly.” “That’s not efficiency. That’s how you get cursed in picture books.” “Picture books can’t hurt you,” he said. “Helicopters and alarm systems can. Notice: no helicopters. This is a low-risk, high-gift environment.” He passed her the binoculars. Through the lenses, Molly saw a trestle table sagging under morality. Towers of brightly wrapped boxes, balloon-print paper, shiny bows, a lopsided banner screaming HAPPY BIRTHDAY, TYLER!!! in desperate glitter glue. “I count at least forty packages,” Bill said. “Average present value, twenty bucks. That’s eight hundred in toy-based assets, minimum.” Molly lowered the binoculars. “Our last job we stole a safe with seventy grand in bonds.” “Yeah,” Bill said, “and nobody clapped when we left. Where’s the showmanship? Where’s the cake?” He flipped open a notebook already filled with diagrams and scribbled arrows. On the top page, someone had drawn the house with exaggerated windows, a menacing dragon-bouncy-castle perimeter, and a little stick figure labeled ‘Tyler – probable threat.’ “I’m more worried about Tyler’s mother,” Molly said. “She’s got the vibe of a woman who would tackle a burglar for using the wrong recycling bin.” “She’s distracted,” Bill said. “See how she keeps counting the juice boxes? That’s crowd-control fatigue. Classic blind spot.” Molly squinted at him. “You made that term up this morning.” “It doesn’t make it less accurate.” Children shrieked as they bounced inside the dragon’s stomach, little shoes flying in ecstatic arcs. Somewhere, a speaker thumped out a kid-friendly pop song that sounded suspiciously like a war crime edited for radio. “So we go in,” Molly said, “smile, blend with the chaos, grab presents, exit left. That’s the plan?” “Not grab,” Bill said. “Reallocate. Think of us as redistribution consultants.” “We are literally stealing toys from toddlers.” “Toddler-adjacent,” Bill said. “Six is barely toddler. It’s… pre-criminal.” She stared at him. “You know what? Don’t finish that sentence.” He flipped to a new page, sketching a crude timeline. “Phase One: infiltration. You’re Aunt Molly from out of town.” “I don’t look like anyone’s aunt,” she said. “I look like I sell fake concert tickets behind a gas station.” “Exactly,” he said. “There’s always a weird aunt. Family contract. Phase Two: I’m the magician.” “You can’t do magic, Bill. You can’t even shuffle cards without dropping them.” “I won the third-grade talent show,” he said defensively. “They still talk about the Great Rabbit Incident.” “They talk about the fire alarm,” Molly said. “I Googled it.” He hesitated. “Okay, minor pyrotechnic overreach. But children love chaos. I do three card tricks, everyone crowds around, boom—distraction.” “And while you’re butchering card tricks,” she said, “I what, exactly?” “You work the gift table,” Bill said. “Offer to help stack, reorganize, alphabetize by giver’s last name—parents love that. You slide the haul into the laundry room. I back the van down the driveway. We transfer, gone before they cut the cake.” Molly chewed her lip. The plan was ridiculous, immoral, and logistically unstable. It was also, annoyingly, airtight in that particular Bill sort of way, where every worst idea had three contingency plans. “What if they already opened the presents?” she asked. “They won’t,” he said. “Tyler’s mom is a schedule person. See the laminated itinerary taped to the garage? Presents are after cake. We’re in the golden pre-present window.” A child ran by in a superhero cape, tripped over his own enthusiasm, and face-planted in the grass. He popped up laughing, mouth smeared blue from frosting. Molly watched him, then sighed. “I feel weird about this one, Bill.” “Weird in a moral way,” he asked, “or weird in a ‘clowns are natural predators’ way?” “Both,” she said. “Mainly the moral one. These are kids. They spent weeks being good for this.” He considered that, then nodded slowly. “Okay. Adjustment. We don’t take everything. We cherry-pick. Educational stuff only. Books, puzzles, anything with the word ‘develops’ on the box.” She blinked. “We’re ethically filtering the loot now?” “Think of it as a public service,” Bill said. “We’re protecting them from disappointing socks and wooden toys that build ‘character.’ We take the boring, leave the fun.” “Kid opens a box, finds socks, cries,” she said. “We’re the reason.” “Kid learns life is pain early,” Bill countered. “Graduates into a responsible adult who doesn’t expect happiness from wrapped boxes. You’re welcome, future Tyler.” Molly let herself laugh, the tightness in her chest loosening. “You’re a terrible person.” “Terrible people plan the best parties,” he said. “Or, in this case, heists built around parties. You in?” She looked at the dragon castle. It inhaled again, cheeks ballooning, then deflated with a theatrical sigh. “Fine,” she said. “But if one child cries while looking directly at me, I’m keeping nothing.” “Reasonable,” Bill said. “Professional pride.” He tossed her a paper party hat, gaudy with stars. It landed in her lap like a contract. “Mask on, Aunt Molly,” he said. “Let’s go steal some character development.”