Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAMK1EATYY1T30JRPW4S21

They sat in the cramped van like conspirators sharing a picnic of sticky notes and stale coffee. Molly outlined the timeline on a greasy napkin, drawing arrows between the clown's entrance and the cake ceremony. Bill traced escape routes with a finger and tasted the snack table he planned to credit as alibi. Outside, little shoes thudded and a radio played a pop song that would become their cover track. The party smelled of frosting and rubber and the efficient anonymity of disposable plates. Molly pinched her lip and rehearsed small talk lines: "Oh, we were just cleaning up" and "Sorry, wrong table," until the phrases sounded like practiced keys. Bill adjusted a pair of cheap latex gloves, tested a zipper, and smiled at the absurdity of being both courteous and criminal. They were not monsters, they agreed; they were managers of entropy, relocating goods from temporary joy to their particular pockets. A paper crown lay on the dashboard, a poor monarch abandoned after a coronation, and Molly considered leaving it on the birthday chair as proof they had not been cruel. Light shifted as the sun moved along the rooftops and she tapped the napkin: fifteen minutes from clown to van, three minutes in the kitchen, two to swap bags. Their humor was precise, a steadying ritual, and when the bubble machine plan made them laugh, they both let out small, conspiratorial sighs. Tonight felt like a small, polite war fought over glitter and squeakers. They were oddly sentimental. Molly: We go in during the clown act, while everyone watches the balloon animals. Bill: And the cake gives us cover with smoke and movement. Molly: Kids scream, parents sing, we glide like shadows between paper hats. Bill: Start in the coatroom, empty hands, pretend to be cleanup crew later. Molly: Bags that look like party supplies, full of streamers but really heavy. Bill: No toys left behind. Teddy bears, game boxes, bikes — take the lot. Molly: We must be quick, quiet, polite if stopped. Smile, apologize, leave. Bill: Polite burglars, like hospital volunteers who move faster. Molly: Hide behind the piñata stand, scoop the pile, shuttle through the pantry. Bill: Use pockets, foldables, dismantle big boxes into flat envelopes. Molly: Label everything "leftovers" and shove in the bins of the caterer. Bill: The caterer owes me. Trade for dessert credits. Molly: What about the birthday kid? We leave one present, a decoy with a note. Bill: "From Santa with love, returned by mistake." Subtle. Molly: Cameras? Bill: Two, in corners, blind spots mapped. We dance in between. Molly: Noise plan? Bill: Trigger the bubble machine. Kids will chase bubbles, creating chaos. Molly: Bubble machine and the clown's confetti cannon. Perfect. Bill: Exit through the kitchen, through the service door, and into the van. Molly: Van with fake caterer logo. We swap logos, leave no tracks. Bill: We split by neighborhood, fences, safe houses. No bragging, no calls. Molly: One rule: no targeting photos on mantels—keep people's memories. Bill: Disappear.