Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKAYXJH9EGKA2WS8YJZNHYJ

They crouched behind a hydrangea, the party lights bleeding through the leaves like soft fluorescent confetti. Molly tucked a strand of fairy lights into her pocket and pretended to adjust an invisible necklace, which was her subtle signal that she had checked the back gate. Bill balanced a backpack that rattled faintly with items whose usefulness could not legally be advertised. Around them a flock of parents hummed like a dangerous choir, eyes blurring into a single watchful mass. A train of toddlers escorted a piñata by rope, their shrieks filling the yard with honest chaos. Molly: "Third-floor balcony, pinata-light, and a hallway full of glitter. We in or out?" Bill: "We're in. But what's the getaway? I don't want to end up explaining to a police officer why I used a spoon to open gifts." Molly: "Operation Sugar Rush: small, silent, candy-motivated. We wear cake bags and carry folding scissors." Bill: "Folding scissors?" Molly: "Multi-purpose. Prongs to unlock ribbons, teeth for opening tape, also excellent for dramatic gestures." Bill: "Dramatic gestures are my specialty. What about kids?" Molly: "We distract with a puppet sloth named Reginald. I can do sad eyes." Bill: "You and sad eyes are contraband." Molly: "We have twenty minutes between pinata pops and cake collapse. Timing is everything." Bill: "I brought a list of presents to prioritize. Toys, then cash envelopes, then suspiciously healthy snacks." Molly: "What about the glitter?" Bill: "We embrace it. Glitter is our calling card." Molly: "Deal." Molly checked her watch: a child's birthday hour is a narrow window, and in the world of sticky frosting and nap-time fatigue, miracles happened if you timed them right. Her plan was not cruel, she kept telling herself; presents are transient, and she only had a soft rebellious streak against consumerism—plus a fondness for sparkly tissue paper. Bill, who believed every perfect crime needed an element of theater, grinned with the kind of confidence that suggested he had read one too many caper novels. He had a grocery list and a conscience on layaway. They rehearsed movements like dancers practicing a ridiculous duet: one distracts, one slips through, both exit with less noise than a falling cupcake. The night smelled of lemon-scented hand sanitizer and animal crackers. Somewhere a toddler tried on a superhero cape and immediately insisted he could fly. It made Molly smile. It made Bill calculate trajectories. The neighborhood was a shallow pool of suburban enchantment; they were two fish in it, disguised as shadows. Their mission required precision, absurdity, and a puppet sloth. Molly and Bill traded glances, and a plan that had been scribbled on a napkin the week before began to snap into focus like velcro. Molly fished a crumpled children's party hat from her pocket and placed it on Bill's head as a test run of ridiculousness. He sighed theatrically and saluted with a cupcake napkin. Nearby, a dog considered stealing the whole scene and wisely decided a squeaky toy was the better prize and clearly amused.