Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB225CQTGRRDBVN864M9CZ

Molly pressed her nose against the foggy van window, watching balloons tug at their strings like they were trying to flee the scene. Beyond the picket fence, a clown in tragic makeup juggled plastic clubs while a pack of sugar‑armed children howled approval. The driveway was lined with minivans, the lawn with discarded napkins and half‑deflated superheroes. "This is it," Molly said. "The Fortress of Sticky Doom." Bill, reclined in the passenger seat with his boots on the dash, peered over a stack of empty fry cartons. "Looks like a regular house to me. Just with more frosting." "That’s how they get you," she said. "Disguise. Never underestimate a structure housing a piñata." He squinted through the windshield. "You see that pile of presents? That’s not a pile. That’s a supply chain. Those kids are never going to appreciate the economic value of all that plastic." "Oh, so we’re doing this as an educational outreach now?" "We’re doing this," Bill said, rummaging in the glove compartment, "as a community service. Decluttering. Minimalism for minors." He pulled out a crumpled cardboard box, its liquor branding aggressively festive. Molly raised an eyebrow. "Subtle." "Exactly," he said. "We walk in carrying this, like we’re delivering more gifts. Parents love more gifts. Then we walk out with it full. Parents just assume we’re taking something to the car. Boom. Victimless miracle." "Except for the victim," Molly said. "You know. The birthday kid." "Character building," Bill said. "Life lesson: possessions are temporary; disappointment is forever. He’ll be a philosopher by middle school." Across the street, someone opened the front door. A wave of noise crashed out: high‑pitched shrieks, off‑key singing, the unmistakable sound of a balloon animal meeting its violent end. Molly flinched. "Okay," she said. "Front door’s suicide. Too many witnesses, too much frosting. We’d be fingerprints and sprinkles within thirty seconds." Bill nodded. "Back fence, then. We hop over, slide along the hedge, sneak in through the patio. Easy." "Easy?" She pointed. A bouncy castle loomed in the backyard like a pastel fortress. Children hurled themselves against its walls, rebounding at lethal angles. "That’s a combat zone, Bill. Those kids are airborne." "Airborne and distracted," he said. "They’re not watching the present table. Parents aren’t watching anything. They’re just trying to keep Timmy from discovering gravity the hard way." "Timing?" she asked. "Before cake or after cake?" "After," Bill said. "Once the sugar crash hits, they can’t chase us. You ever seen a kid run in frosting socks? They wipe out on their own shame." Molly sank back in her seat, tapping a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel. "Remind me again why we’re robbing a children’s party instead of, I don’t know, a jewelry store?" "Because jewelry stores have alarms, cameras, and employees who’ve slept this week," Bill said. "Here we’ve got tired parents, one emotionally unstable clown, and a dog currently eating a streamer. Pick your battlefield." As if on cue, the family golden retriever dashed across the yard with a paper crown stuck over one eye. "Fine," she said slowly. "We go in with the box. Straight faces. No eye contact with the clown; he’ll see into our souls. We load up, we walk out. Zero improvisation." "Minimal improvisation," Bill corrected. "Bill." He held up a hand. "Okay, okay. No improvisation. Just pure, professional gift extraction." Molly stared at the chaos a moment longer. "If a five‑year‑old takes me down," she said, reaching for the door handle, "you’re explaining it to my parole officer." "Deal," Bill said. "I’ll tell her you died a hero." "I'm not dying," Molly said. "I’m stealing a dinosaur puzzle." "Same thing in this neighborhood," Bill replied, and together they stepped out of the van toward the storm of tiny, weaponized joy.