Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7MY8ADYQTVKQQAEWHKC55

Bill’s tie was already coming loose, knotted around the corner where he’d been pacing. Molly was spread across the kitchen table, sticky fingers from the can of soda she’d cracked open (leftover from the caterer) smudging her notes. “Relax,” she said, flipping a page. “Kids are like pigeons—they peck, they scatter, they forget you even existed within five minutes.” Bill pointed to the sketch she’d drawn: a blueprint of the party room, marked with “PRESENTS: 12” and “PIÑATA: EXPENDABLE.” “Pigeons don’t have a golden retriever mascot in a tutu,” he said. “And a glitter cannon. The lady of the hour’s dad operates it. Says it ‘sparks joy.’” Molly squinted at the sketch. “Sparks joy is just fancy talk for ‘I need to show off.’” Bill sighed, plopping into a chair. “What about the security camera? The one by the snack table. The parents installed it last week—‘just in case the piñata rebel.’” “Rebel, my ass,” Molly said, tapping the camera. “I know that model. Blinks red every ten seconds. If you wave a neon bandana in front of it, it thinks it’s a firework. Works every time.” She leaned in, grinning. “And about the glitter—we’ll be covered in it, but so what? Lucy’s mom’ll blame the mascot. Kids believe anything if you wear a tutu.” Bill stared at her. “You’re a maniac.” “You’re the one who agreed to this.” She nudged his shoulder. “C’mon, Bill. Stuffed unicorns, art sets, a remote-controlled dinosaur. Think of the stories. ‘Remember when we stole birthday presents from a five-year-old? Best night of our lives.’” He stood, smoothing his tie. “I can already hear my parole officer. ‘Bill, why are you covered in glitter and wearing a tutu?’” “Parole officers know better than to ask questions,” she said, tossing him a tutu from behind the couch. “Now, gloves. We’re not amateurs. And if the dog mascot barks, you distract it with the cake. Extra sprinkles.” Bill caught the tutu, staring at it. “You planned this.” “I have a gift.” She pointed to the cookies on the counter, half-eaten. “And these? They’re laced with melatonin. The parents’ll be tuckered out by the time we’re done. Now, let’s go. The piñata starts in ten—time to make Lucy’s birthday the most memorable she’ll ever have.” Bill took a deep breath, pulling the tutu over his head. “This is a terrible idea.” “Called you a maniac earlier. Don’t back out now.” She winked, grabbing a stuffed bear from the table. “C’mon. The presents aren’t gonna steal themselves. And Lucy’ll never know the difference. She’ll just think Santa delivered early.” Bill sighed, but he was smiling. “Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you.” “You always do.” She tossed him a stuffed unicorn. “Let’s make it rain confetti… er, presents.” Molly slipped on black gloves, pulling a hood over her head. Bill fumbled with his tutu, nearly tripping over the sketchpad. Through the window, the party room blared “Baby Shark,” a parent laughing as Lucy smacked the piñata. “Remember,” Molly said, grinning, “we’re *charity cases*. Saving presents from ungrateful children.” Bill laughed, adjusting the tiara she’d tossed at him. “Right. Charity.” They slipped out the door, the sound of “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” fading behind them. Somewhere, the golden retriever mascot sneezed. Somewhere, a parent checked the cookies. And somewhere, two thieves with tutus and gloves were about to become heroes—if they didn’t set off the glitter cannon. But that was a risk worth taking. After all, Lucy deserved the best presents… the ones that didn’t require wrapping paper. Or a thank-you note. Or, y’know, a conscience.