Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAQFVCP06H6PMQYZT1E7Q4

Molly crouched behind the hydrangeas like they were tactical shrubbery, her black turtleneck already snagged on something festive and judgmental. Across the street, the Ramirez house pulsed with balloon colors and the kind of laughter that usually came right before a child discovered gravity. Bill eased up beside her, breathing like he’d jogged here, which was impossible because Bill considered jogging an urban legend. “Okay,” Molly whispered, “visual confirmation: bouncy castle, piñata, and enough wrapping paper to choke a whale.” Bill peered through binoculars he’d clearly borrowed from a birdwatcher, because there was a tiny duck sticker on the lens cap. “I see the loot. Bright bags, curly ribbons, some suspiciously large boxes. One is shaped like a bicycle. A bicycle, Molly. For a six-year-old. That’s practically a down payment.” “Focus,” she said. “We go in during the chaos window. Cake time. Children will be at peak sugar hysteria.” Bill nodded with solemnity. “My therapist calls that ‘an opportunity.’” Molly flicked open a notepad. It had a unicorn on it, which did not help her credibility. “You’re the distraction.” Bill blinked. “I thought you were the distraction.” “I’m the professional,” she said. “You’re the man with the face that says ‘I don’t know where I parked my life.’ You’ll fit right in.” Bill frowned. “That’s… accurate. But what’s the distraction?” Molly pointed at the driveway where a clown van was unloading its entire nightmare. “We have clowns on site. How much more distraction do you need?” Bill swallowed. “Clowns are an uncontrolled variable. One of them might be trained.” “We’re not stealing the clown,” Molly said. “We’re stealing the presents.” Bill adjusted his cheap earpiece, which squealed like a wounded mouse. “What’s the plan, exactly? Because last time you said ‘in and out,’ we ended up trapped in a hedge maze for forty minutes.” “That was an artisanal hedge maze,” Molly said. “This is suburban. Simple geometry. I go in as… party staff.” Bill stared at her. “You don’t own a uniform.” Molly unzipped her bag and produced an apron that read BIRTHDAY HERO in glitter letters. “Borrowed. From the donations bin.” Bill looked pained. “That’s not borrowing. That’s morally adjacent to stealing.” Molly gave him a look. “Bill. We are literally planning to steal children’s presents.” “I know,” he whispered. “I just like a clean line of hypocrisy. It helps me sleep.” A shriek rose from the backyard, followed by the unmistakable thump of a piñata taking another hit. Molly timed it like a conductor. “On my mark, you walk in with this.” She handed him a giant gift bag covered in cartoon dinosaurs wearing party hats. It was so big Bill could have hidden inside it if he curled up and abandoned dignity. Bill held it at arm’s length. “What is in here?” “Nothing,” Molly said. “It’s an empty bag. You’re going to claim it’s for the birthday kid.” Bill’s eyebrows climbed. “Won’t they notice it’s empty?” “You’ll say it’s a ‘conceptual present.’ Parents love concepts. It makes them feel like they went to college for a reason.” Bill hesitated. “What if they ask me to write a card?” “Then you write, ‘To the birthday boy: never stop believing,’” Molly said. “No one questions sentimentality. It’s the duct tape of society.” Bill practiced a smile that looked like apology in facial form. “And while I’m… concepting, you’ll grab the real presents?” Molly nodded. “Gift table is inside, near the kitchen. I slide them into the rolling cooler.” Bill squinted. “Cooler?” She patted the bush beside them. Hidden under a towel was a wheeled cooler decorated with stickers that said SOCCER MOM and LIVE LAUGH LASAGNA. “No one questions a cooler. It’s America’s most trusted container.” Bill blew out a breath. “We are terrible people.” “We’re efficient people,” Molly corrected. “Terrible would be leaving the wrapping paper behind.” He glanced toward the yard, where a clown tried to high-five a child and missed, slapping himself in the forehead. “Okay,” Bill said. “When do we go?” Molly watched a woman carry out a cake the size of a small ottoman. The children swarmed like piranhas in pastel. “Now,” Molly said. “Operation Birthday Sweep. Try not to get adopted.”