Run: 2026-02-16-01KHM5S1WV72CAN8PKA5Q4DZAR

The dim glow of a single bulb flickered above Molly and Bill as they hunched over a hand-drawn map of the suburban cul-de-sac. The air smelled of stale coffee and desperation. “So let me get this straight,” Bill said, rubbing his temples. “We’re breaking into a six-year-old’s birthday party to steal presents?” Molly smirked, twirling a lock of her tangled red hair. “Not just any presents. Premium loot. Have you seen the toy aisle lately? Legos? Those little robot dogs? We’re talking a gold mine, Billy-boy.” “We’ve hit banks, art galleries—” “And how’d that work out?” Molly snapped. “Last time, we barely escaped with a painting of some sad clown.” “It was a Picasso!” “It was depressing!” She jabbed a finger at the map. “This is foolproof. No guards, no lasers, just a bunch of sugared-up kids and a stressed-out mom. Cake and grab, easy.” Bill sighed, scratching the scruff on his chin. “What’s the play, then?” Molly grinned. “You’re the clown.” “What?” She tossed a neon wig at him. “You’ve got the face for it. You’ll entertain the kids—juggle, make balloon animals, whatever—while I sneak off and load up the getaway wagon.” “The *station wagon*.” “Yes, the *station wagon*,” Molly said, rolling her eyes. “It’s a full-blown kids’ party, Bill. You think we’re rolling up in a black van? We need plausible deniability. ‘Oh no, officer, we’re just *very* enthusiastic party volunteers.’” Bill squinted at the wig like it had personally offended him. “I don’t juggle.” “Then learn. By tomorrow.” He tossed the wig back. “This is a low, Molly. Even for us.” “Oh, please,” she scoffed. “We’re thieves, not philosophers. Are you in or are you out?” Silence stretched between them. Outside, a distant ice cream truck played a jaunty tune, mocking their moral quandary. Finally, Bill groaned. “Fine. But if one of those little monsters cries on me, I’m bolting.” “Deal.” Molly clapped him on the back. “And hey—if we pull this off, we’ll be rolling in toy resale cash. No more sad clowns.” Bill nodded grimly, adjusting the wig. “You owe me big.” “I always do.” With that, they returned to their plans, the weight of their impending heist settling over them—along with the faint but undeniable smell of impending birthday cake disaster.