Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKATYG5F209GD69C47PXF3J

“Okay, Bill, listen,” Molly whispered, peering through the hedge like it had insulted her personally. “Children’s parties are just banks, except the vault is made of wrapping paper and poor decisions.” Bill adjusted his ski mask, which was decorated with tiny stitched daisies. “I’m wearing the floral one. Again. I look like I’m about to rob a garden center.” “Stop whining,” Molly said. “It’s camouflage. In a party full of moms.” “Moms are not a natural habitat,” Bill said. “They can smell unemployment.” Molly flicked his ear. “Focus. Presents. The living room is stacked like a glittery pyramid scheme.” Bill squinted. “How many kids are we talking?” “Eight confirmed, two maybes, and one toddler who keeps eating chalk,” Molly said. “That’s at least ten gift bags, plus the big-ticket items. I saw a remote-control dinosaur.” Bill’s eyes widened. “Those things are loud.” “Not if we keep it off,” Molly said. “We’re professionals, not joyriding velociraptor enthusiasts.” Bill pointed toward the window. “The entertainer. That’s a clown, right?” “That’s ‘Professor Gigglefizz,’” Molly said. “And yes, he’s a clown. Which is why we move during the magic show. Everyone looks at the rabbit, nobody looks at the criminals.” Bill grimaced. “I hate clowns.” “I hate taxes,” Molly said. “We all carry burdens.” Bill pulled a crumpled notepad from his pocket. “I wrote down our cover story.” Molly sighed. “You wrote? With a pencil?” “Pen smudges,” Bill said. “Okay. I’m ‘Uncle Bill from Accounting.’ You’re ‘Aunt Molly, recently returned from… yoga.’” “Yoga is not a place,” Molly hissed. “It’s a vibe,” Bill insisted. “People accept vibes at parties.” Molly leaned closer. “We are not related to anyone. We do not say the phrase ‘from Accounting.’ That’s how you get offered responsibilities.” Bill swallowed. “Fine. What do we say when a parent asks who we are?” “We say, ‘Oh, we’re with the catering,’” Molly said. “Then we carry something. Carrying makes you invisible.” Bill nodded, looking impressed. “Like a clipboard.” “Like a tray of mini quiches,” Molly corrected. “No one questions a quiche. It’s too tired to fight.” Bill peeked again. “There’s a bouncy castle.” “Good,” Molly said. “The parents will be staring at it like it’s a liability lawsuit waiting to hatch. Meanwhile, we slide to the present table.” Bill tapped his bag. “Tools. Zip ties. Glass cutter. A grappling hook.” Molly stared. “Why do you have a grappling hook?” “It was on sale,” Bill said. “And you always tell me to be prepared.” “For what, scaling a cupcake stand?” Molly said. “We’re stealing presents, not invading a medieval fortress.” Bill lowered his voice. “What about the dog?” Molly watched a pug waddle across the patio wearing a party hat. “That dog is basically a footstool with eyes. I could bribe it with a cracker.” Bill sighed. “And the kids?” “We’re not monsters,” Molly said. “We take the presents, not the children.” “I wasn’t suggesting we take the children,” Bill said quickly. “I’m just saying they’re loud and sticky.” “They’re like tiny drunk adults,” Molly said. “We avoid eye contact, and if one approaches, you say, ‘Ask your mom.’” Bill rehearsed. “Ask your mom.” “Convincing,” Molly said. “Now, exit route. We go through the side gate, across the sprinklers, into the alley.” Bill frowned. “Sprinklers?” “Yes,” Molly said. “It’s a backyard. Water happens.” “I don’t like wet socks,” Bill said. “Then don’t wear socks,” Molly said. Bill looked horrified. “That’s chaos.” Molly straightened, checking the timing. “Magic show starts in thirty seconds. When the clown says, ‘Is this your card?’ we move.” Bill inhaled. “What if someone sees us?” Molly smiled thinly. “Then we improvise. We clap, we laugh, and we say, ‘What a delightful party.’” Bill swallowed. “And if the clown sees us?” Molly’s smile vanished. “Then we run. No one outruns guilt, Bill, but we can outrun a man in oversized shoes.” Bill nodded, then hesitated. “One more thing. What are we doing with the presents afterward?” Molly blinked. “We sell them.” “All of them?” Bill asked. “Even the dinosaur?” Molly eyed him. “Bill.” Bill mumbled, “I just thought maybe we could keep one.” Molly listened to the distant squeal of children, the clown’s booming voice, the first gasp of a trick. “Fine. One. But if it roars, it sleeps in your apartment.” Bill grinned. “Deal.” Molly pushed through the hedge. “Showtime, Uncle Bill-from-Not-Accounting.” Bill tugged his floral mask down. “Ask your mom.”