Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB350V1XVH6XGH2VFFBQZ7

Molly crouched behind the hydrangeas, peering through the slats of the backyard fence. Bill lay beside her like a man who’d mistaken espionage for a picnic. “Do you hear that?” Molly whispered. “Yeah,” Bill whispered back. “That’s the sound of my knees filing a complaint.” “Not your knees. The shrieking.” “Oh. Right. The tiny humans. It’s like a siren made of sugar.” “Focus, Bill. We’re here for the presents.” “The presents,” Bill repeated reverently. “Boxes of joy. Wrapped hope. Loot with bows.” “Don’t get poetic. It makes you sloppy.” “I’m never sloppy. I’m… improvisational.” “Improvisational is what you call it when you forget the plan and try to charm a security camera.” “That camera liked me.” “The footage did not. All right, schedule. Parents arrive, drop kids, flee like it’s a fire drill. Clown starts balloon animals. That’s our window.” “Clown? I didn’t sign up to rob a clown.” “We’re not robbing the clown. We’re robbing the kids.” “That’s… worse.” “Morally complicated,” Molly corrected. “Now, target location: gift table. Under the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY JASPER’ banner. Jasper is turning six, which means he’s old enough to have opinions, but not old enough to lock up his merchandise.” “Merchandise,” Bill said. “I like that. Makes it feel like a business transaction.” “It’s a heist.” “A heist with confetti.” Molly checked her watch. “Two minutes until cake.” “How do you know?” “I read the schedule on the fridge through the window.” “You can read through windows now?” “I pressed my face against it, Bill.” “Oh. Great. So we’re criminals and also extremely normal.” Molly slid a folded paper from her pocket. “Roles. You’re the distraction.” “I knew it. Always the distraction. I’m basically a human piñata.” “You’re tall and you sweat charisma. Use it.” “Charisma sweat is not a medical condition.” “It is in your case. I’m the lifter. I grab all the gifts, dump them in the wagon, and we exit through the side gate.” “The wagon,” Bill said, eyeing the red plastic thing leaning against the shed. “That’s a toddler’s wagon.” “Blends in.” “I don’t blend in with toddler equipment. My knees already hate me.” “Then stop bringing your knees to jobs,” Molly said. “Bring someone else’s knees.” Bill sighed. “Fine. How do I distract a herd of six-year-olds hopped up on juice boxes?” “You make an announcement.” “I can’t just announce a crime.” “Not a crime. A game. Tell them there’s a ‘surprise scavenger hunt’ on the front lawn.” “And they’ll believe me?” “You’re wearing a polo shirt. That’s basically authority.” Bill glanced down at his black turtleneck. “I’m not wearing a polo.” “Then button your turtleneck. Make it look like a polo in spirit.” “That’s not how fabric works.” “Bill, every party has at least one uncle who looks like he crawled out of a laundry basket. You’ll be fine.” Bill leaned closer to the fence. “Okay, but what if a parent stays? What if Jasper’s mom has, like, hawk energy?” “Then you use Phase Two.” “Phase Two is where I pretend to be a magician, isn’t it.” “Yes.” “I knew it. I told you the top hat was a mistake.” “It’s not a mistake, it’s a prop. Now listen. If confronted, you say, ‘Hello, I’m from FunTime Party Solutions. The clown is running late, so I’m filling in.’” “Do I look like a FunTime Party Solution?” “You look like a FunTime Problem, but close enough.” Bill rubbed his hands. “And what are you doing while I’m being a FunTime Whatever?” “I’m liberating the presents.” “All of them?” “All,” Molly said. “We don’t pick and choose. Picking and choosing is how you end up stealing only socks.” “I once stole socks,” Bill said defensively. “They were very expensive socks.” “Focus. Time check. Cake is imminent. When they start singing, you go.” “I go during the singing?” “Yes. Nobody pays attention to adults during singing. It’s like background furniture.” Bill swallowed. “Molly. Hypothetically. If a child asks me why I’m taking the gifts—” “You’re not taking the gifts.” “But you are.” “I’m ‘moving’ the gifts,” Molly said. “If questioned, you say, ‘We’re relocating the presents to the Present Zone for optimal birthday distribution.’” “That sounds fake.” “Everything at a children’s party is fake, Bill. The friendship. The balloon dog. The idea that six-year-olds enjoy carrot sticks.” From inside the yard, the squeal of singing rose up, off-key and militant. Molly’s eyes sharpened. “Showtime.” Bill inhaled like a man about to jump into a swimming pool full of bees. “Okay. I’m going in.” “Remember,” Molly said, gripping his sleeve, “smile like you belong and lie like you mean it.” Bill nodded. “Got it. Smile. Lie. Don’t rob the clown.” “And if you see a kid with a face full of frosting,” Molly added, “avoid eye contact. They can sense weakness.” Bill pushed the gate open a crack. “If I don’t make it, tell my knees I’m sorry.” “I’ll send flowers,” Molly said. “Now go distract the tiny sirens.”