Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKATZCQ094EP288QPD8TB0S

Molly peered through the fogged windshield of the van and watched the backyard erupt in primary colors. Balloons bobbed like buoyant warning signs. A paper banner screamed HAPPY BIRTHDAY, which, in Molly’s experience, usually translated to HAPPY OPPORTUNITY. Bill adjusted the fake mustache he’d bought at a costume shop that also sold whoopee cushions and dignity in bulk. It immediately began to peel off one corner, as if trying to escape his face. “Tell me again,” Molly said, “why we’re robbing children.” Bill, solemn as a priest in a buffet line, said, “We’re not robbing children. We’re liberating gifts from an oppressive system of glitter and obligation.” Molly squinted. “That’s the same thing, but with more syllables.” A shriek of laughter floated over the fence. A clown—full face paint, tragic wig, soul clearly gone—twisted balloon animals with the exhausted grace of a factory worker. Bill nodded toward the gift table set near the patio. Mountains of wrapped boxes sat there like colorful bricks in a wall between them and payday. Some were shaped suspiciously like board games, others like stuffed animals. One was enormous and rattled when a kid poked it, causing an adult to hiss, “No peeking!” Molly cracked her knuckles. “We go in, we grab the presents, we go out.” Bill blinked. “In broad daylight? With thirty witnesses and a clown?” “It’s not broad daylight,” Molly said. “It’s 3:47. That’s practically evening if you’re tired enough.” Bill leaned back and the van’s springs complained. “Okay, but what’s our cover? We can’t just stroll in carrying a sack labeled ‘Loot.’” Molly produced two party hats from the glove compartment as though they were forged passports. “We blend. We become… festive.” Bill stared at the hats. “Those are unicorns.” “They were on sale,” Molly said. “Also, unicorns are disarming.” Bill tried on his hat. The elastic snapped against his chin with the sound of a tiny slap. “I feel disarmed. Mostly of dignity.” Molly slid her own hat on and it sat at a confident angle, like it was part of her personality. She pointed at the cooler on the passenger-side floor. “We bring something. Every party needs someone who brought something.” Bill opened the cooler and frowned. Inside were two bottles of sparkling water and a bag of baby carrots. Molly held his gaze. “I panicked at the grocery store.” “Baby carrots say, ‘I’m here to judge you,’” Bill whispered. “They’re narcotics for guilt.” “Fine. We don’t lead with the carrots,” Molly said. “We lead with charm.” Bill cleared his throat. “I have charm.” Molly looked at his mustache peeling like a sad sticker. “You have adhesive issues.” From the yard came a chorus of children counting down. The piñata—a rainbow donkey—was hoisted into the air, swaying like it had made poor life choices. Bill’s eyes lit up. “Distraction.” Molly’s grin turned sharp. “Exactly. While they’re busy assaulting papier-mâché livestock, we approach the gift table.” Bill hesitated. “And then we just… take them? Like, all of them?” “Yes,” Molly said. “It’s called stealing, Bill. Try to keep up.” Bill licked his lips. “What if the parents ask who we are?” Molly nodded toward the house, where a woman with a clipboard was herding toddlers away from the cake like a trained border collie. “We’re friends of the birthday kid.” Bill’s eyebrows rose. “What’s his name?” Molly paused, watching the banner ripple in the breeze. “It’s… probably something like Brayden.” Bill looked horrified. “You can’t ‘probably’ your way through a felony.” Molly opened the van door. “Sure you can. It’s how half of corporate works.” They climbed out, party hats wobbling, and started toward the gate. Bill’s shoes squeaked on the sidewalk, a noise that seemed to announce, HELLO, I AM A CRIME. Bill whispered, “We should at least act normal.” Molly waved. “Normal is subjective.” As they reached the fence, the first blow landed on the piñata. Candy rained down like confetti with nutritional value. Kids screamed and scrambled. Adults clapped like they’d invented joy. Molly inhaled, then stepped through the gate with the serene confidence of someone arriving to return a borrowed casserole dish. Bill followed, clutching the cooler like a shield. “Smile,” Molly murmured. Bill smiled so hard his mustache finally gave up and fell off. It fluttered down onto the grass between them like a tiny black omen. Molly didn’t miss a beat. “Look,” she said, nodding at it, “a caterpillar. Nature’s party favor.”