Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKATB0P7Z1ANDTEFBD2J5SA

“Tell me again why we’re robbing a children’s party,” Molly whispered, crouched behind a hedge shaped like something cheerful and judgmental. “Because,” Bill said, peering through the leaves, “presents are the purest form of currency. Also because you said, and I quote, ‘Adults buy better stuff for kids than for each other.’” “I said that while I was angry at my brother for giving me a scented candle called Ocean Regret.” “See? Motive.” Molly adjusted her black beanie, which was already collecting confetti like it had its own social life. “Bill, there are balloons. There’s a clown. There are… tiny people with sticky hands.” Bill nodded gravely. “The most unpredictable security system known to man.” “And you still want to go in there and take every present.” “Not every present,” Bill corrected. “Just the ones in boxes. Bags are chaos.” Molly stared at him. “That’s your ethical line? Boxes only?” “I’m a professional.” Molly squinted toward the backyard where a banner wobbled in the breeze. “It says HAPPY EIGHTH, TREVOR. Eight. He’s eight.” Bill licked his thumb and smoothed his eyebrow like that would make him less of a villain. “I didn’t pick the target. You picked the target.” “I picked it because you said we needed something ‘low-risk.’” “It is low-risk,” Bill said. “Kids don’t call the cops. They call their moms. Different response time.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’re going to get chased by a woman in a cardigan holding juice boxes like weapons.” Bill’s eyes gleamed. “Juice boxes are, technically, little liquid grenades.” “Bill.” “Fine,” Bill said, softer. “We do it clean. In and out. No tears. No trauma.” “How do you steal a child’s birthday present without tears?” “You steal the big ones first,” Bill said. “The kid cries about a missing bicycle, not about missing socks.” Molly’s mouth fell open. “That’s worse.” Bill shrugged. “Look, I’ve been workshopping.” Molly leaned closer, lowering her voice. “What’s the plan, then? You going to rappel from the roof with a sack labeled ‘NOT SUSPICIOUS’?” Bill pointed at his duffel. “It’s labeled ‘YOGA.’ Nobody questions yoga.” “They should,” Molly muttered. “You don’t bend. You fold like cardboard.” Bill ignored that. “We go in as entertainment. People invite strangers if they’ve got a balloon animal in their hand.” “I can’t make balloon animals.” “You can,” Bill said. “You just make balloon… feelings.” Molly blinked. “Balloon feelings.” “Like,” Bill said, warming up, “a balloon of regret. A balloon of quiet resignation. A balloon of… a long-term lease.” Molly stared at him until his confidence wilted. “We’re thieves, Bill, not performance artists.” Bill pointed at the yard again. “Thieves are performance artists with worse press.” A shriek of laughter rose from the party, followed by the unmistakable chant of “TREVOR! TREVOR!” like the kid had a fan club and a mortgage. Molly whispered, “Listen to them. They’re so happy.” Bill cleared his throat. “Happiness is… temporary.” “So is guilt,” Molly said. “But it’s loud.” Bill hesitated. “Okay. Counterproposal.” “I’m listening,” Molly said, suspicious. “We don’t steal the presents,” Bill said quickly. “We… borrow them.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Borrow them for what?” “For,” Bill said, improvising, “quality control. We make sure there’s nothing dangerous. Like… kazoos. Or glitter.” Molly snorted. “Glitter is basically arson.” “Exactly,” Bill said. “We’re heroes.” Molly stared at the party, then at Bill. “Your hero plan is to walk in, confiscate the presents, and leave?” “Temporarily,” Bill said. “Then we return them.” “When?” Bill opened his mouth, then shut it. “Before college.” Molly exhaled. “Bill.” He slumped. “Fine. New plan.” “There’s a new plan every thirty seconds,” Molly said. Bill leaned in, earnest. “We go in, we help set up, we eat cake, and when everyone’s distracted, we steal something else.” Molly frowned. “Like what?” Bill looked down, embarrassed. “The clown’s shoes.” Molly blinked, then started to laugh—quiet at first, then shaking the hedge with it. “You want to steal the clown’s shoes.” “They’re huge,” Bill defended. “One shoe is basically a suitcase.” Molly wiped her eyes. “And what do we do with clown shoes, Bill? Flee the scene slowly?” Bill sighed. “I just… I wanted a win.” Molly watched Trevor open a present, his face lighting up like someone had handed him the sun in wrapping paper. She lowered her voice. “Here’s a win. We don’t ruin this.” Bill swallowed. “So we’re just… not doing the heist.” Molly stood up, brushing confetti off her hat like she was resigning from crime. “We’re doing a different heist.” Bill brightened. “Yeah?” Molly nodded toward the table. “We steal the leftover cake. That’s victimless.” Bill whispered, reverent, “Buttercream.” “And,” Molly added, “we take one present.” Bill’s grin snapped back. “I knew it.” Molly pointed a finger at him. “One present,” she said. “The one labeled ‘For Trevor’s Mom.’”