Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPH8PK993K00RWFBN1XJWS

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 half-eaten map of the suburban cul-de-sac. The truck smelled like expired sprinkles and bad decisions, which, in Molly’s opinion, was the perfect scent for a heist. “Alright,” Molly said, tapping a glittery invitation they’d “borrowed” from a mailbox. “The party starts at two. Parents drop off gifts at the table by the bounce house. Security is just Timmy’s dad, who’ll be distracted by the magician—and let’s be real, the guy’s idea of ‘security’ is making sure no one double-dips the queso.” Bill adjusted his fake mustache, which was already peeling at the edges. “You’re telling me our biggest obstacle is a guy who thinks ‘watch the kids’ means ‘stand near the cake and nod occasionally’?” “Exactly. And the presents? Stacked like a Jenga tower of capitalism. We hit the gift table during the piñata chaos, swap the good stuff for a bunch of rocks we painted to look like LEGO sets, and vanish before the cupcakes are even frosted.” Bill squinted at the invitation. “What’s the theme?” “Dinosaurs. Why?” “Because if we’re gonna blend in, I’m wearing the T-Rex costume.” Molly groaned. “You’re six-foot-four and built like a disgruntled fridge. You’ll look like a dinosaur who just got fired from his job at the DMV.” “That’s the *point*,” Bill said, puffing out his chest. “No one suspects the sad, sweaty mascot. I’ll just lumber around, occasionally roar at a kid, and boom—invisible.” “Fine. But if you eat any of the cake, I’m leaving you there.” Bill gasped. “You’re a monster.” Molly ignored him, unfolding a blueprint of the backyard. “The bounce house is our cover. You cause a ‘malfunction’—” “By sitting on it?” “—while I ‘help’ the moms move the presents to ‘safety.’ Which, coincidentally, is our getaway minivan.” Bill rubbed his hands together. “I love it when a plan comes together with this little effort.” “Don’t jinx it.” Molly tossed him a walkie-talkie. “Channel three. And if you see Timmy’s dad heading for the queso, that’s our cue to bail.” Bill clipped the walkie to his belt, then paused. “Wait. What if there’s *actual* security?” Molly smirked. “Then we improvise. You distract them with your award-winning dinosaur impression, and I’ll—” “—trip a kid into the punch bowl?” “No! God, you’re terrible at this. I’ll *charm* them. ‘Oh, officer, these presents? They’re for my nephew, Little Kevin. He’s *very* sick.’” Bill snorted. “You’re gonna pull the sick kid card at a *children’s party*?” “Desperate times.” Molly checked her watch. “Alright, T-Rex. Let’s go ruin some childhoods.” Bill flexed, nearly knocking over a stack of fake gift boxes. “For the record, I *refuse* to feel bad about stealing from a kid named Timmy. That’s like robbing a bank named *Money McCashface*.” Molly sighed. “Just don’t get glitter in the van. Last time, I found it in my *hair* for a week.” Bill grinned. “No promises.” He pulled the dinosaur head over his own, the plastic eyes staring blankly ahead. “Let’s do this.” Molly took one last look at the invitation, then at Bill—now a lanky, slightly depressing T-Rex—and wondered, not for the first time, how her life had led to this. Then she grabbed the bag of painted rocks and followed him into the chaos.