Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB272D0JEC2FSA0Z07PE1F

Molly crouched behind the inflatable unicorn, watching the backyard fill with shrieking eight‑year‑olds and responsible-looking parents clutching paper plates. Bill adjusted his black beanie, which in daylight made him resemble a worried barista. The birthday banner sagged like a tired alibi, and a mountain of wrapped boxes waited on a picnic table, glittering with stickers and small, hopeful bows. "Molly, this is low." Bill’s voice was nearly swallowed by a piñata being beaten like a confession. Molly checked her clipboard—because no one questions a clipboard—and nodded toward the side gate. "Kids never lock their loot." They slid along the hedge, passing a cooler of juice boxes. Bill’s stomach growled treasonously, so Molly fed it a stolen grape, then produced a roll of gift tags and a marker. If they walked out carrying presents labeled “From Grandma,” nobody would dare stop them; grandparents were society’s magic invisibility cloak. "We borrow gifts, then vanish." She scribbled briskly. Bill eyed the cake with strategic longing. "And eat cake?" "Only for courage." The doorbell rang inside. That was their cue: slip in as entertainers, exit as legends, and leave the unicorn to take the blame. Bill made animals; Molly practiced smiling like a teacher.