Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB02N1F36ZE91M20TSNQC2

Molly balanced a glittering invitation between two fingers while Bill consulted an absurdly detailed map of the community center. They were professionals of a sort, practiced in petty subterfuge and theatrical flair, experts in the art of appropriating joy when it was most vulnerable. The party's balloons reflected like tiny moons. The smell of frosting and optimism hung thick. Outside, a minivan full of wrapped rectangles idled, unaware that fate had scheduled an audit. Molly tapped the invitation, smiled a conspiratorial smile, and folded her lips into a plan that involved costumes, kazoos, and the precise timing of cookie breaks. Bill nodded as if every heist required a nap schedule. He tightened his shoelace with theatrical care. Between them, a checklist grew: distraction, extraction, exit. They rehearsed the choreography silently and foolishly, already picturing the glitter trail that would confuse and betray them. They loved it with terrible, gleeful devotion. "Molly: We're not here for cake, Bill; we're here for presents, ribbons, and the existential crisis of one disgruntled teddy bear under fluorescent lights again." "Bill: You said it—joy reclamation. Strictly professional. We'll wear party hats as disguise, carry balloons strategically, and move like confetti during nap time for science." "Molly: What about the parents? I don't want a morale lecture about ethics. I'm allergic to guilt and to PTA spreadsheets in general and paperwork." "Bill: We'll stage a distraction. My kazoo solo will be loud, oddly poignant, and approximately three minutes long—perfect for pilfering twelve circus-themed gift boxes efficiently." "Molly: Twelve? I counted eight. Did you inflate numbers to impress me? Never inflate numbers unless it's a helium balloon or your ego and self-delusion." "Bill: My ego is documented but not airborne. Also I have an inside tip: Brenda from craft corner leaves the gift table unattended every time." "Molly: Every time? That makes Brenda the Achilles' heel of festivities. Do we need a costume? I vote for something with sequins and subtlety please." "Bill: Sequins and subtlety are not mutually exclusive. Picture us as glamorous decorators who drink punch, adjust streamers, then quietly empty piñata of presents gracefully." "Molly: I can be graceful for exactly seven minutes. After that I turn into a heisting Tasmanian devil who hoards wrapping paper like confetti treasure." "Bill: Perfect. I'll handle navigation. You've mastered sleight of hand; you've stolen cookies from jars and hearts from bingo nights, remember the floral incident? clearly" "Molly: Clearly. The lilies were dramatic, the hat was larger than the moral consequences, and Mrs. Davenport still hasn't forgiven my scarf appropriation or ever." "Bill: We'll avoid lilies and hats then. Operation Under-Twelve will favor plush acquisition, classic toys, and one suspiciously large electronic drone that squeals incessantly loudly." "Molly: Squealing drone—nightmare fuel. We'll package it in a giant box labeled 'Educational Kit' and slide it out under the pretense of impromptu puppet show." "Bill: Then we vanish into the night with sacks of gratitude and glitter. We'll be legends, ghost stories told at PTA meetings for generations unapologetically."