Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB11NH121VRD3YW71092VZ

Molly crouched behind the azalea bushes like a nature documentary narrator had personally offended her. Across the street, the Hendersons’ backyard throbbed with the chaos of a children’s party: balloon arches, a plastic castle, and a sound system playing songs about dinosaurs with emotional maturity. Bill adjusted the binoculars he’d borrowed from a birdwatcher and never returned. His black turtleneck made him look like a stagehand on the run. “This is the job?” Molly whispered, watching a clown attempt a cartwheel and abandon it halfway like a man reconsidering his life. Bill nodded solemnly. “High-value merchandise. New in box. Still wrapped. No serial numbers. No emotional attachment until after the cake.” Molly eyed the gift table under a gazebo, stacked like a small fort. The wrapping paper alone looked expensive. “There’s, what, twenty presents?” “Thirty-two,” Bill said. “I counted. Twice. I also counted three supervising adults, one teenager on his phone, and a golden retriever with the eyes of a parole officer.” Molly slid her notebook out. It had “CRIME STUFF” written on the cover in glitter pen, because subtlety was a hobby she’d tried once and hated. “Walk me through it again.” Bill cleared his throat with the seriousness of a man about to explain a magic trick he didn’t fully understand. “Phase one: blend in.” Molly stared at him until the silence became an object. “With what, Bill? Our natural aura of villainy?” “We wear party hats,” he said. “No one suspects someone in a party hat. It’s science.” Molly watched a father trip over a jump rope and pretend it was intentional. “Okay, science. Phase two?” “Phase two: distraction,” Bill said. “I create a commotion.” “How,” Molly asked, “does one create a commotion at a children’s party without getting tackled by a swarm of parents who used to play rugby?” Bill pointed at the inflatable castle. “I enter the bounce house. As an adult.” Molly’s face did the kind of expression you only see on people reading a terrible menu. “That’s not a commotion, Bill. That’s a felony and a hernia.” “It’s bold,” he insisted. “They’ll all watch me. You sweep the table.” Molly watched a kid in a cape sprint into the castle and immediately bounce backward like a rejected email. “Phase three?” “Extraction,” Bill said. “We exit through the side gate, toss the presents into the van, and vanish.” Molly nodded slowly. “And the van is where, exactly?” Bill gestured behind them. Parked at a jaunty angle was their vehicle: an aging white panel van with “BILL’S MOBILE PET GROOMING” magnetically slapped on the side. A cartoon poodle winked like it knew too much. Molly rubbed her temples. “We’re stealing gifts from children in a van that advertises grooming.” “It’s a legitimate business,” Bill said, offended. “I groomed a cat once. It was mostly screaming.” Molly peeked again. The gift table sat temptingly close to the patio door, where an adult was arranging paper plates like they were strategic assets. “We need a cleaner angle. No bounce house. No vans that make us look like headlines.” Bill lowered the binoculars. “So what’s your plan, Captain Morals?” Molly pointed to the clown, now attempting to twist a balloon dog into something resembling a bat. “We take their jobs. We go in as entertainers.” Bill blinked. “You want me to be a clown.” “No,” Molly said. “I want you to be a magician. Clowns are unpredictable. Magicians are respected.” Bill’s mouth opened, then shut, as if the idea needed to be chewed before it could be swallowed without choking. “I can’t do magic.” “You can do theft,” Molly said. “It’s basically magic with worse reviews.” Bill looked down at his black turtleneck like it had betrayed him. “What would I even say?” Molly’s eyes glittered with strategy and bad decisions. “You say, ‘Hello, children, I will now make your parents’ disposable income disappear.’ But with more whimsy.” Bill sighed. “And you?” “I’ll be your assistant,” Molly said. “Assistants carry boxes. Assistants manage props. Assistants accidentally end up next to the gift table.” Bill’s gaze drifted back to the party. A kid shrieked with joy at being handed a goody bag full of sugar and small plastic dangers. Bill swallowed. “This feels… mean,” he said quietly. Molly watched the mountain of wrapping paper waiting to be torn like a piñata’s retirement plan. “Bill, we’re not monsters. We’re professionals.” Bill nodded, as if that settled it. “Okay. But if any child asks me to pull a coin from their ear—” “—you do it,” Molly said. “And then you steal the coin too.”