Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAQCA3EYPA5421T7T7C05M

“Remind me why we’re robbing a children’s party,” Bill whispered, peering through the hedges at the backyard lit up with bunting and a balloon arch shaped like a unicorn. “Because,” Molly said, adjusting her beanie like it was tactical gear, “grown-ups buy the good stuff and then hand it to toddlers who think cardboard is the real gift.” Bill squinted. “I once saw a kid unwrap a remote-control car and immediately eat the instruction manual.” “Exactly. Wasteful. We’re basically recycling.” “We’re basically criminals,” Bill said. Molly leaned in. “Criminals with a mission. Look at the pile by the gift table. That’s at least five hundred dollars of joy we can convert into rent.” Bill frowned. “Why is the gift table next to the sprinkler?” “Because parents are chaos made flesh. Now listen.” Molly pulled out a hand-drawn map on the back of a pizza flyer. “Entry point: side gate. Distraction: you.” “Me?” “You’ll be the entertainment.” Bill stared. “I’m not juggling.” “You don’t have to juggle. You just have to be convincingly wrong in the vicinity of adults. They’ll rush to correct you.” Bill thought about that. “I can do convincingly wrong. It’s my whole brand.” Molly tapped the map. “You stroll in like a dad who’s late and overconfident. You say you’re ‘here for the magician’ and ask where the ‘birthday bride’ is.” Bill winced. “Birthday bride?” “They’ll stop you. They’ll explain. They’ll talk. Meanwhile, I’m a shadow. I’m a whisper. I’m a woman with a tote bag shaped like a friendly sloth.” Bill glanced at her bag. “It has sunglasses.” “That’s intimidation. Now, the presents. We can’t just scoop them and run.” “Why not?” “Because they’re wrapped,” Molly said, as if he’d suggested stealing a cathedral. “We need plausible movement. We need choreography.” Bill sighed. “Okay, choreograph me.” Molly pointed at the yard. “They’ve got games. Musical chairs. Pin the tail. Piñata. Everyone’s attention is pre-booked. During ‘Pass the Parcel,’ I swap the gift pile with the decoy pile.” Bill blinked. “Decoy pile?” Molly produced another tote bag. This one was bulging with lumpy shapes. “I made fake presents.” “You made fake presents.” “Yes. Empty boxes, newspaper, and one jar of pickles for authenticity.” “Pickles aren’t authentic,” Bill said. “Every party has one weird gift from an aunt. Pickles cover that. Now, when I replace the stack, I’ll stack them in the exact same festive way.” Bill looked doubtful. “You can’t copy festive.” “I can. I studied wrapping tutorials for six hours. I have a certificate in ribbon anxiety.” Bill rubbed his face. “What about the birthday kid? They might notice their gifts moving.” “They won’t,” Molly said. “They’re about to see a clown.” Bill’s eyes widened. “There’s a clown?” “No, you are,” Molly said. “But a friendly one. You’re going to attempt balloon animals.” “I don’t know balloon animals.” “You know regret. It’s similar. Here.” Molly handed him a pack of long balloons. “Make a dog. If it pops, act like it’s part of the show.” Bill tested a balloon between his fingers. “Why does it feel like it wants to sue me?” “Because it’s latex and full of spite. Just smile.” Bill glanced back at the party. “There are parents. Like, adult parents.” “Parents are easy,” Molly said. “They’re running on coffee and guilt. Tell them you’re ‘volunteering’ and they’ll thank you for existing.” “And if someone recognizes me?” “From where? The Most Wanted list? You’re not wanted, Bill. You’re barely tolerated.” Bill huffed. “That hurt.” Molly softened. “It’s a compliment. You’re invisible. That’s your superpower. Mine is lying.” Bill nodded slowly. “Okay. I go in. I ask where the birthday bride is. I twist balloons into legal liability. You swap the gifts with… pickle boxes.” “Correct.” “And then what?” Molly zipped her sloth tote. “Then we exit through the side gate, blend into the neighborhood, and vanish.” Bill swallowed. “We’re stealing happiness from children.” “We’re borrowing unopened consumer goods from people who can’t read,” Molly said. “Also, there’s a bouncy castle. That’s enough happiness for at least four kids and one tired dad.” Bill hesitated. “What if the kid is, like, really sweet?” Molly tilted her head. “Bill. Have you met children?” Bill sighed. “They’re sticky.” “They’re sticky,” Molly agreed. “Now inflate your courage and those balloons. Showtime.”