Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAT522KTQ9JCJMX43747CG

Molly and Bill crouched behind the inflatable unicorn, watching the glittery chaos of the backyard unfold. Streamers drooped from the gazebo, a clown honked mournfully near the cake table, and a small herd of sugar-loaded children orbited a mountain of presents like unstable satellites. Molly pressed her face to the plastic horn. “That’s it,” Molly whispered. “The mother lode of wrapping paper and bad decisions.” Bill peered around the unicorn’s inflatable rump, eyeing the gift table the way other people eyed retirement plans. “How many six-year-olds do you think we can take in a straight fight?” he murmured. Molly glared at him, then flicked a sprinkle off her sleeve like it had insulted her ancestors. “We’re burglars, Bill, not gladiators. We infiltrate, we exfiltrate, we don’t body-slam toddlers.” A balloon animal drifted past them, its twisted red body spinning in slow, tragic circles. “That balloon has seen things,” Bill said. “Listen, timing is everything. We go when the cake hits the table.” Across the yard, a woman in a denim jacket lit sparklers with the steely focus of someone who’d signed a waiver. “The mom’s got look-at-my-baby’s-birthday eyes,” Molly said. “That’s a level of vigilance you can’t buy.” A scream rose from the bouncy castle, then changed pitch and became laughter, the universal sound of unchecked chaos. “See? Chaos is our cover. Nobody inventories presents during a sugar riot.” Molly pulled a crumpled blueprint from her backpack: a hand-drawn map of the yard on a napkin from “Lenny’s Discount Tacos.” “All right,” she said. “Point A: the fence. Point B: the gift table. Point C: the emergency exit via the compost bin.” Bill squinted at the napkin, turning it sideways, then upside down. “Where’s Point D: snacks?” he asked. “You know, for morale.” Molly yanked the napkin back before he could smudge the strategic queso stain marking the fire pit. “Focus,” she hissed. “We get in, we grab the loot, we leave no fingerprints and absolutely no glitter trail.” A shrill voice cut through the yard as the birthday kid’s grandmother clapped for attention, lifting a camera the size of a small appliance. “Picture time,” Bill muttered. “Perfect. They’ll all be facing the same direction, like a tiny, sticky firing squad.” The kids scrambled toward the patio, leaving the presents momentarily unguarded, swaddled in cartoons and false promises. “This is it,” Molly said, adrenaline bright in her eyes. “Operation Birthday Heist begins now.” “We are not calling it Operation Birthday Heist,” Bill said. “That sounds like a law enforcement PowerPoint.” “You named our last job ‘Project Shiny Distraction,’ Molly replied. You lost the right to judge operation names.” “Project Shiny Distraction worked, Bill said. Technically.” “We left you hanging from a chandelier, Bill.” “Details,” Bill said. “The point is, nobody noticed the missing jewelry.” “Children notice everything,” Molly said. “They sense injustice on a molecular level.” “Then we don’t give them injustice,” Bill said. “We give them a story.” “About how all their presents mysteriously multiplied?” Molly asked. “Exactly,” Bill.