Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPDRZCN2GYMDDGRB0HW3HF

The neon glow of the *Happy Birthday, Timmy!* sign flickered through the miniblinds of the abandoned ice cream truck where Molly and Bill crouched over a blueprint of the McAllister mansion. The blueprint was actually a crayon drawing Molly had swiped from Timmy’s little sister during a “casual” playground reconnaissance mission, but it was the best they had. Molly tapped a chipped nail against the sketch where a lopsided balloon arch marked the gift table. “Alright, genius, talk me through this again. We’re hitting a six-year-old’s birthday party. Not a bank. Not a museum. A *bounce house adjacent* crime scene.” Bill adjusted his fake mustache—a choice Molly had vetoed three times already—for the seventh time in as many minutes. “It’s *perfect*. No security. No alarms. Just a bunch of sugar-crazed kids and parents too busy Instagramming the cupcake tower to notice two caterers ‘accidentally’ walking out with a truckload of LEGOs and iPads.” “Caterers?” Molly arched an eyebrow. “We look like caterers?” “We *will* after I put on this apron.” Bill flourished a stained white apron that read *Kiss the Cook (But Not Really)* in peeling letters. “And you’ll be my assistant. The *sexy* assistant.” Molly snatched the apron and hurled it into a puddle of melted rainbow sherbet on the truck floor. “I’d rather get caught. Also, we’re stealing from *children*.” “Correction: we’re *redistributing* from children who already have too much stuff to children who—okay, fine, to *us*.” Bill rubbed his temples. “Look, the McAllisters insured these gifts for, like, five grand. They’ll get a check, we get a payday, Timmy gets a lifetime of therapy. Everyone wins.” Molly sighed, flipping open a switchblade to pick at her cuticles. “What’s the play?” “Phase one: we show up as ‘Magical Balloon Artists.’” Bill air-quoted with jazz hands. “Phase two: I ‘accidentally’ pop all the balloons—distraction. Phase three: you swap the real presents with the fakes we packed.” He patted a duffel bag full of bricks wrapped in *Frozen 2* paper. “Fakes?” Molly’s knife paused mid-pick. “You *wrapped bricks*?” “Not *just* bricks! I put a single Jolly Rancher in each box. For *authenticity*.” Molly stared at him. “You’re a monster.” “A *prepared* monster.” Bill checked his watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes before the piñata massacre. You in?” Molly exhaled, then grabbed a spare clown nose from the dashboard and jammed it onto her face. “Fine. But if I have to sing ‘Baby Shark’ to sell this, I’m turning us both in.” Bill grinned, slinging the duffel over his shoulder. “Deal. But if we get caught, you’re the one who insisted on the clown nose. That’s *not* in the blueprint.” Molly adjusted the nose with a scowl. “It’s *tactical*. No one suspects a clown.” “No one *likes* a clown, either.” They climbed out of the truck, the distant sound of “Happy Birthday” warbling through the suburban air like a siren song for the morally flexible. Molly cracked her knuckles. “Alright, partner. Let’s go ruin childhood.”