Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAYAT4SX1CA1GY8CWCTWTA

Molly crouched low in the shadow of a hydrangea, clutching a cloth sack that smelled faintly of lemon and excuses. Bill adjusted his cap, its brim a crooked salute, and checked a cheap flashlight which winked like a nervous accomplice. They stared at the children's house where streamers fluttered and a balloon arch made the porch look like a tiny, jubilant gate. Inside, voices rose and a chorus of Oohs and Ahhs floated through glass. Presents sat on a folding table in tidy envy, boxes wrapped with cartoon ponies and robots, ribbons uselessly serious. The front door had been left ajar by accident and by sugar; the host was coaxing a toddler with a napkin and a story about a missing sparrow. Perfect, thought Molly. Too perfect, thought Bill. They had been partners in petty weirdness for years: a pastry heist at a retirement bake sale, a daring swap of garden gnomes, a near miss with a charity auction and a gavel. Tonight felt softer, smaller, like stealing starlight from a jar. They moved like rehearsed shadows, elbows bent, knees whispering against the gravel. The plan was simple and absurd: wait for the cake ceremony, create a minor emergency involving an imaginary pet, then remove the unguarded gifts with speed and manners. Neither felt guilty, only theatrical. They were thieves with taste, which meant they had rules. Molly tapped Bill's sleeve twice, the agreed signal, and the night wrapped them like a conspirator's hand on a map, and plans inside. "We slip in when the cake arrives, pockets empty for decoys, then fill them with small boxes, ribbon fluff, and anyone who looks too surprised." "We trade bows for receipts, leave a thank you note with fake sincerity, and vanish before candles scream sugar panic and parental chaos unfolds swiftly." "You memorize the living room layout: three windows, a coat rack, a stack of unclaimed goodie bags under the table, and escape path via garage." "I distract with a story about lost puppies, pratfalls, and a promise to volunteer, just long enough for you and leave quietly through back door." "When the lights dim and a child screams surprised delight, you signal with two taps on the table, and I start bagging quickly and politely." "Insurance is not our job, but we wrap each item in tissue, tuck a sticker into a corner, and stage the table like nothing happened." "If a parent approaches, adopt a dazed expression, point at an imaginary animal, and we both commit to being delightfully distracting until they leave gracefully." "We split the spoils by the alley light: one keeps ribbons, the other numbers the boxes, cash swaps hands, then we disappear humming softly home." "Promise me one thing: no sentimental grand speeches, no returning wrapped toys to anyone, we are professionals with glitter on our hands, not reformists tonight." "I promise only the thrill and the split, maybe a cheeky photo with a bow, then we burn the map and laugh at ourselves loudly."