Run: 2026-02-16-01KHKB5ED8RWD0TG28THJ9Z90Q

The alley smelled of leftover cake, rain, and a hint of mischief. Molly perched on the fire escape, a silhouette in a red coat, scanning the apartment windows. Bill crouched below, knees tucked, twirling a paper party hat between two fingers. They had rehearsed this night in a dozen ways, each version sillier than the last, because laughter made the danger taste less like fear. He tapped the hat to his forehead, as if blessing the plan. Streetlight flickered and a dog barked twice, a metronome for their timing. Molly mouthed numbers, the guest list, and rewound logistics in her head. The party would be upstairs, small living room packed with cousins, sugar, balloons, and a suspiciously glittery pile of presents. Their objective was simple: remove every wrapped box, leave behind only an apologetic note and perhaps a rubber duck. Bill blew air through his teeth. He was the smooth part of the duo, practiced at pockets and pockets' pockets, while Molly was the spark, quick with improvisation and sticky fingers. They traded a look, the kind thieves know, a catalog of jokes and contingencies that fit their low budget expertise. Outside, a party balloon popped like confetti in their eardrums, and the building hummed with waiting. Molly tapped her watch, grinned, and whispered that the cake had a candle, the perfect timed distraction. Bill nodded, rehearsing his role. They were ridiculous, and they liked it, which made the plan feel almost moral. Tonight they would be professionals, at play. "Molly: Okay, the cake moment is minute three. We blow candles, kids scream, grownups clap, and we are a human wave." "Bill: Human wave, huh? I practiced the wave. On stairs it looks like a suspiciously enthusiastic earthquake." "Molly: You're in charge of making the clown balloon animals. Distract with papier mache sorrow and misplaced hats." "Bill: Clown balloon animals? My speciality. I can make a poodle that steals watches and a giraffe that recites nursery rhymes." "Molly: Good. I'll take the presents nearest the windows. You take the stack by the couch, pretend to fix the stereo, and then slip them into the duffel." "Bill: Slip them into the duffel? Which duffel? The one with the fuchsia zipper or the one that squeaks like a pigeon?" "Molly: The silent duffel. The squeaker draws suspicion and also shame. Nobody needs to know we replaced the corner gift with a brick of chocolate." "Bill: Solid. For escape, we use the fog machine from the attic. Nothing says 'we're gone' like a theatrical fog drifting down the stairs." "Molly: And if someone notices the missing gifts?" "Bill: We leave a note: 'Santas on strike. Taking unpaid overtime.' And maybe one of your terrible cookies as an apology." "Molly: My cookies are not terrible, they are avant garde. But okay, one cookie, two at most." "Bill: Timing: Cake blow at three, fog at four, exit stage left at five. We'll be gone before the piñata is questioned." "Molly: Rubber ducks and fake mustaches."