Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKANG87KXHP07YG9CQ1GCJK

Molly perched on the windowsill like a cat who had just stolen someone else's tuna, glitter on her sleeve and a ridiculous grin. Bill fiddled with a glittery party horn as if it were a stethoscope, peering through cheap curtains at the cluster of shoes and balloons below. They were professional in an unprofessional way: two careers of tiny cons and big regrets, aiming for a children's birthday. The plan smelled faintly of napkins and frosting. The backyard was a minefield of paper crowns and a piñata that looked like a mythological fruit. They had rehearsed scripts for locksmiths and distracting aunties, but improvisation would be required when a sugar-high mob of five-year-olds arrived. A heist always had one rule for them: leave no evidence, especially glitter, which clung like guilt. They traded looks that meant mischief and logistics, and then they spoke, as they always did, in loud whispers. "Molly: Okay, we're doing this tonight. Birthday cake, balloons, seven dozen wrapped treasures and one suspiciously ornate unicorn piñata." "Bill: Do you always catalog the loot like it's a library?" "Molly: Habit. Lists keep my nerves from glittering too loudly. Also, that unicorn piñata is probably full of chocolate and tiny plastic swords." "Bill: Tiny plastic swords are the currency of playgrounds. We need maps. Where's the table with presents?" "Molly: Against the fence, under the banner that says 'Happy Birthday, Molly'—not our Molly. Say it with me: diversion, sleight, exit." "Bill: Diversion how? I can juggle cupcakes. I refuse to juggle cupcakes." "Molly: You promise never to juggle cupcakes again? Fine. We'll do the classic—balloon attack. Release a flock of balloons; parents chase, chaos ensues." "Bill: Parents chasing balloons is both believable and cinematic. Who releases the balloons?" "Molly: You. You're charming. Also, bring glitter-free gloves. Last time you sneezed and sprinkled evidence for weeks." "Bill: I sneezed once. That sneeze led to an entire bakery investigation." "Molly: Exactly. No sneezing. Also, we need an aunt." "Bill: An aunt?" "Molly: Yes, an aunt who cries over everything. She will spot a 'lost' ring and start a melodrama that draws humans away from the gift pile." "Bill: Where do we get an aunt?" "Molly: We borrow Mr. Patterson's tan terrier costume from the community theater. The terrier plays an emotional companion and the costume comes with an imaginary aunt." "Bill: Terrible plan. Also practical. What's my role while you extract the pile?" "Molly: You are the distraction and the wheelbarrow. You wheel, I lift—under twenty seconds per box." "Bill: Wheelbarrow? Do we have a wheelbarrow?" "Molly: We will have a collapsible cart disguised as a decorative present. Remember the accordion trick?" "Bill: Yes, but last time your 'decorative present' unfurled into a cloud of confetti and caused an intervention." "Molly: That intervention is why we rehearse. This time we rehearse with polite neighbors. We practice faces." "Bill: Faces?" "Molly: Timing is everything. Password is 'Cake or cash.'" "Bill: Exit plan?" "Molly: Back gate, compost, over fence, run." "Bill: Gloves, cart."