Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAM9B11C4GEBP39HK9EYHJ

Molly and Bill crouched behind an overturned inflatable dolphin in the backyard. The party lights blinked like friendly warnings, and a chorus of little shrieks drifted over the fence. It was mid-afternoon and the sun had softened, making every plastic cup look like a potential decoy. They had rehearsed this route on the walkie they shared, but tonight they preferred monologues and the danger of whispered comedy. Molly traced a plan on the condensation of a lemonade cup, drawing arrows toward the folding table where presents clustered like colorful parking meters. Bill checked his belt: two slings, a utility fork, and a grin that refused to be practical. He looked at Molly and nodded in a way that said they could do it or at least make a spectacular mess trying. They were not monsters. They were artists who preferred canvas made of wrapping paper. The plan required choreography, timing, and the subtle theft of attention. Children were the perfect camouflage; their focus bounced like ping pong balls. Nearby, a woman in a cardigan placed candles on a cake and hummed off-key, which served as an impromptu metronome for Molly's breath. Bill sketched a corridor in the mulch, plotting the smooth extraction of boxes without bumping a single ruffle. The dog at the neighbor's porch barked twice as if to audition for security. Molly smirked and whispered, "We go in through the patio door, grab the presents, and ghost out before the cake collapses." Bill tapped his chin, consulting the small book of improvised excuses he carried in his head. "And the kids?" Molly resumed her tracing, harder, as if a bolder line could guarantee success. "Distract them with balloons; you juggle, I produce a puppet, nobody notices the sleight of hand." Bill looked genuinely horrified and delighted at once. "You want me to juggle at a six-year-old's party? I have two left feet and one suspicious eyebrow." Molly laughed, the sound tiny and dangerous. "You're the only one who can make a balloon dog look like a shark and a tax write-off." They moved closer, mapping shadows like blueprints. Bill's fingers left small, impatient arcs in the mulch as he followed the imaginary path they would take. "We need a timeline, a clean exit, and a decoy for Uncle Roger's singing." "Uncle Roger's already the decoy; he sings, they cover their ears, we fill the sack." The cake timer ticked somewhere in the house like a countdown they swore they couldn't hear. Bill squared his shoulders. "What about the cake? If we take too many gifts and the cake is ruined, the mother will be distraught." Molly's smile turned conspiratorial. "We don't touch the cake. That is a sacred treaty between thieves and toddlers." Bill grinned, making a final check of his slings. "We'll tag each present with duct-tape cords; Operation Teddy Bear proceeds without incident tonight easily."