Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAM5ZSP72G15PJARFR3W5J

“You’re sure about this, Bill?” Molly peered through the hedge, binoculars glued to her face. “Because it looks like maximum chaos in there.” Bill, lying on his stomach in the grass like a very unathletic snake, adjusted his cap. “It’s chaos, Molly. Chaos is our camouflage. Nobody suspects a heist during musical chairs.” From their vantage point across the suburban lawn, the backyard was a battlefield of balloons and sugar-fueled children. A pony, whose eyes held the thousand-yard stare of the truly defeated, trudged in slow circles while a clown tried to juggle and defend his wig at the same time. “There,” Molly muttered, zooming in. “Gift table. Pink tablecloth, unicorn centerpiece, strategic proximity to the bouncy castle.” Bill pushed a crumpled blueprint between them. It was clearly a re-used pizza flyer with arrows drawn all over it. “Phase One: Infiltration. Phase Two: Acquisition. Phase Three: Escape and cake.” “We’re not taking the cake,” Molly said. “Why not?” Bill frowned. “It’s a crimes-of-opportunity situation.” “Because it’s shaped like the birthday girl’s face. That’s not theft, that’s psychological warfare.” He considered that. “Fair point. Just the presents, then. A clean, morally ambiguous score.” Across the yard, a tiny tyrant in a glittery tiara shrieked with joy as she hit a piñata with unnerving accuracy. “That one worries me,” Molly said. “She’s got leader energy.” “She’s six,” Bill scoffed. “What’s she going to do, ground us?” “If she cries, everyone cries, Bill. Then the adults stop pretending they don’t see anything. We need stealth, not sobs.” He folded up the pizza blueprint. “Right. The plan. I go in as entertainment.” Molly lowered the binoculars. “You are not a clown.” “I’m not,” he agreed. “I’m the Amazing Billini, children’s magician. I can juggle three objects for at least four seconds. Possibly five if they’re not on fire.” “You don’t have a costume.” He triumphantly pulled a sequined vest and a stack of mismatched playing cards from his backpack. “Borrowed from my cousin’s improv group.” “Your cousin’s in prison,” Molly said. “Yeah,” Bill replied, sliding into the vest. “So you know it’s quality gear.” Molly sighed. “Fine. You distract, I extract. I’ll blend in with the other parents.” Bill tilted his head. “You don’t look like a suburban parent. You look like you steal things from suburban parents.” “That’s why I have this.” She produced a large reusable grocery bag decorated with wholesome vegetables. “Nothing says ‘responsible adult’ like organic kale.” He squinted at the bag. “You’re going to stuff stolen presents into a tote that says ‘Eat Clean, Live Green’?” “It’s called irony, Bill. It’s very in this year.” Music drifted over the fence: a high-pitched chorus of children singing badly about baby sharks. Bill winced. “We need to move before my ears file a complaint.” “How are you getting in without an invite?” Molly asked. He grinned. “Simple. I ring the bell, say I’m the backup magician. The first guy canceled due to an unfortunate rabbit incident. I wave a few cards, pull a coin from someone’s ear, boom, I’m in.” “They’re going to want references.” “I’ll reference the screaming,” he said. “Anybody with sense would hire a backup.” “And me?” Molly asked. “I can’t just stroll in the front gate.” “You go over the fence by the shed,” Bill said. “Land behind the bouncy castle, use it as cover. Nobody ever looks behind the source of fun.” “What about the pony?” she said. “We avoid the pony. The pony and I have history.” “You tried to steal a pony once,” Molly reminded him. “And the pony tried to bite me. It was a mutual disagreement.” A scream went up from the yard as the piñata finally exploded, releasing a candy hurricane. Children dove like rugby players. The clown dropped his juggling balls and fled. Molly watched, calculating. “During candy storm, parental attention will be at maximum distraction.” “Exactly,” Bill said. “That’s our window.” She adjusted her ponytail, steeling herself. “One concern. These kids are hopped up on frosting and power. If we get caught—” “We won’t,” Bill said. “But if we do, what’re they gonna do? Put us in time-out?” Molly pictured herself sitting in a tiny plastic chair while a six-year-old lectured her about consequences. “Honestly, that might be worse than jail.” “So don’t get caught,” Bill said. He stood, dusting grass off his knees. “Ready?” Molly slung the kale bag over her shoulder like a bandolier. “Let’s go rob a birthday.”