Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB3QXGYNWWXV8EB30G5DEM

Molly: Bill, listen to the siren song of helium and frosting—the party across the street is going to be our playground, and no, I did not bring a map, I brought a napkin with doodles. Bill: A napkin with doodles and a dream, you mean. The dream being a room full of shiny stuff and a chorus of tiny squeals when we waltz out, right? Molly: Pretty much. Also the balloons will be distracting—bright, buoyant, ubiquitous. They float, we follow, and suddenly all that glitter belongs to us. Bill: Glitter is a trap, Doll. Glitter blinds you to the sensible route. Don’t you remember the last time we followed glitter? Molly: I remember. The glitter led us to a janitor’s closet where you declared yourself archduke of mop buckets. It was a moment. Bill: It was a noble moment. Anyway, step one: we scout the scene. Step two: we acquire the presents. Step three: we retreat before the adults notice the mystery of the disappearing wrapping paper. Molly: Step one first, which means we arrive when the party’s at peak chaos—the cake sword fights, the pinata eruptions, the kazoo parade. We blend with the chaos. Bill: I can blend. I’m practically a chameleon in sneakers. What’s plan A for entry? Molly: Plan A is conversation with the door. It likes to hear a story before it opens. Bill: The door has a mood, does it? Fine. I’ll charm it with a compliment about its frame and its sense of duty. If that fails, I’ll pretend to be a magician’s assistant. Molly: Magician’s assistant needs a wand, and I saw no wand, only a lot of glitter. Let’s keep it simple: we slip in with the partygoers as if we’re just two exhausted uncles who wandered into the wrong birthday. Bill: Two exhausted uncles who happen to know where the candy stash is. I like it. Molly: The “candy stash” is code for presents. We’re not hunting candy, we’re hunting the glittery kingdom of plush toys and board games. Bill: And let me tell you, those plush toys have alliances. They cling to the kiddie gifts like tiny court jesters. Molly: We’ll disarm the court with courtesy. A polite cough, a whispered excuse about the humidity, and suddenly no one suspects two adults with no party hats. Bill: Hats are perilous. They scream, accessories, out here. We’ll wear plain hoodies and pretend to be rainclouds drifting through. Molly: A raincloud with a clipboard. You brought a clipboard? Bill: Of course. It says “Guest List of Improbable Events.” I cross off the impossible, then we’re cleared for takeoff. Molly: You realize we’re not actually stealing the kids’ favorites, right? We’re stealing their joy—wrapped up and labeled. Bill: Ah, the ethical complication. Fine. We’ll steal the joy of unwrapping, then donate the rest to a charity of our choosing, after we return the socks we borrowed from the cat. Molly: If we’re caught, we’ll claim we’re undercover toy inspectors. No one questions toy inspectors. Bill: Except the clock. It keeps ticking. Molly: Then we move before it thinks we’ve taken too long. Bill: I hear the party people singing, a chorus of birthday wishes. If we listen closely, we’ll hear the sound of our plan unfolding. Molly: It’s almost showtime. The room glows with lanterns, the music swells, and we glide in like mislaid confetti eager to be found. Bill: Let’s go, partner. Tonight the present parade becomes our story, and the only trail we leave is a trail of giggles.