Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAQZA8D3H9HT8RF5MDT88P

“Tell me again why we’re robbing a children’s party,” Bill whispered, flattening himself behind a hedge that was trimmed into something vaguely rabbit-shaped. “Because,” Molly said, peering through the leaves, “it’s the perfect crime. Nobody suspects a couple of adults standing near a bouncy castle with purpose.” “They’ll suspect the one wearing a ski mask.” “It’s not a ski mask,” Molly said. “It’s a ‘winter balaclava.’ And it’s festive. See? It’s got little snowflakes.” “It’s July.” “Exactly. People will assume we’re eccentric.” Bill tugged at his own disguise: a party hat perched on his head like a guilty thought. “I’m dressed as a cone.” “You’re dressed as a guest,” Molly corrected. “Smile. You’ve got ‘I belong here’ energy if you stop looking like you’re calculating the risk of frosting.” “I am calculating the risk of frosting. Those cupcakes are weapons.” Molly pointed at the backyard. “Focus. Table of presents, left side, under the ‘Happy Birthday, Juniper!’ banner. We go in, we scoop, we go out. We’re gone before the magician finishes inflating a giraffe.” Bill frowned. “What about the parents? They’re roaming.” “Parents are easy,” Molly said. “They’re distracted by juice boxes and existential dread.” “I see a dad with tongs,” Bill said. “That’s not dread. That’s authority.” “Authority with barbecue sauce,” Molly said. “We can outmaneuver him.” Bill leaned closer. “And the kids?” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Kids are the real security system. Unpredictable, sticky, and loud. That’s why we use the distraction.” “The distraction being?” Molly produced a bubble wand from her pocket like it was a handgun. “Bubbles.” Bill blinked. “We’re committing felony larceny with bubbles.” “Not felony,” Molly said. “Misdemeanor whimsy. Watch. Kids see bubbles, kids chase bubbles. Adults see kids happy, adults relax. We swoop in on the presents like emotionally distant storks.” Bill rubbed his temples. “I don’t think storks steal.” “They steal babies,” Molly said. “Allegedly.” Bill looked again. “Okay, but there’s a clown.” “That’s a paid professional,” Molly said. “He’s not watching the presents. He’s watching his career die in real time.” “I hate clowns,” Bill whispered. “They’re like thieves, but legal and with balloon animals.” Molly tucked the bubble wand into her sleeve. “We’re going in. You take the big gift bags. I take the stack of wrapped boxes. No rummaging.” “But what if there’s something valuable?” Bill asked. “Like a necklace. Or—” “Bill,” Molly said, “these are children’s presents.” “Kids can want expensive things,” Bill insisted. “Like the latest—” Molly cut him off. “The latest what? Glitter glue? A dinosaur that screams?” Bill’s eyes lit. “Those scream dinosaurs go for a lot online.” “They also come with batteries and guilt,” Molly said. “We take everything. We don’t judge. We don’t open. We don’t—” Bill’s stomach growled, loud enough that the rabbit hedge looked offended. Molly stared at him. “Did your stomach just snitch on us?” “I skipped lunch,” Bill said. “In case we had to run.” “You always skip lunch,” Molly said. “Your entire criminal career is powered by poor decisions and vending machine regret.” Bill pointed. “There’s a piñata.” “Ignore it.” “It’s shaped like a treasure chest,” Bill said, voice reverent. “That’s practically an invitation.” “Bill,” Molly said, grabbing his sleeve, “we are not fighting children for candy.” “I wouldn’t fight,” Bill said. “I’d… strategically acquire.” Molly sighed. “We’ll steal the presents. Then, if fate is kind, we’ll ‘strategically acquire’ a cupcake on the way out.” Bill nodded solemnly. “Okay. But if I get frosting on my hands, I’m dropping the loot.” “Then keep your hands clean,” Molly said. “You’re the bag man.” “That sounds like an insult.” “It’s a job title,” Molly said. “Now: walk like you own the place.” Bill stood, immediately too upright. “Like this?” “Less like a scarecrow,” Molly hissed. “More like you’re here because you were invited.” “I wasn’t invited,” Bill muttered, stepping onto the lawn. “None of us were,” Molly said, following. “That’s what makes it a heist.” Bill adjusted his party hat. “If anyone asks, I’m Juniper’s… uncle.” Molly snorted. “You don’t have ‘uncle’ energy. You have ‘man who knows too much about locks’ energy.” “I can be an uncle,” Bill insisted. “I can say uncle things. Like… ‘Who wants to hear a story about taxes?’” Molly grabbed his arm and steered him toward the present table. “Just smile and don’t speak.” Bill glanced at the mountain of gift bags. “It’s so many.” “Think of it as charity,” Molly said. “We’re liberating these gifts from a life of sticky fingers.” Bill whispered, “I see a teddy bear with a bow.” “Take it,” Molly said. “It’ll be your alibi when you cry later.” Bill reached for the first bag. “On three?” “On ‘now,’” Molly said, and swept a stack of boxes into her arms. “Move, Uncle Taxes.”