Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8NEB67S5BRWCDYM3M6STV

The living room smelled like neon and panic. A half-eaten jello cup sat on the coffee table, its lime green walls smudged into a lopsided grin. Molly swiped a party hat with a pom-pom that kept falling off and jammed it into Bill’s back pocket. “You *still* wanna steal a kids’ party? My cat’s birthday was last week. Did I rob *her*? No. I bought her Temptations. *Classy*.” Bill, currently attempting to tape a glow stick to a rubber chicken, waved the plastic fowl like a conductor’s baton. “Because the Harringtons are throwing their son a dinosaur party, and every time that kid roars, Mrs. Harrington starts hiding her good cookies. Those presents? They’re either cash or a *very* expensive box of stickers. I’ve seen worse odds for a heist than tricking a bunch of toddlers out of glitter.” Molly stopped sanding a floorboard (her “cover” as a handyman) and stared. “A rubber chicken? You’re gonna distract the butler with a glow stick chicken? Last year, you tried to steal a lobster by dressing as a seagull. It *attacked* you.” Bill set the chicken down, now glowing like a small, deranged lantern. “That lobster was *fat*. Worth it. This? This is *sophisticated*. The butler’s been here 20 years. He’s seen everything—including my *very* convincing impression of a garden gnome. They call me ‘Gnome Bill’ on the east side. Legend.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Legend, my ass. The security system’s a motion sensor by the door. It beeps. Like, *loudly*. The kids have a fish tank next to it—if you trigger it, the fish panic, and the tank overflows. Floods the place. We’ll be ankle-deep in Betta fish and regret.” Bill popped a sugar cube into his mouth. “Solution: Trigger it *after* we’re in the kitchen. The fish hate the water, not the noise. Plus, the presents are under a table with a ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ sign. *Perfect*—gives us an excuse to be there. ‘Sorry, little t-rex. Mom asked us to fetch the napkins. Where’s the… uh… fire extinguisher?’” Molly snorted. “The fire extinguisher’s in the closet. The real problem is the birthday boy’s dog. A corgi. It’s got a bone the size of its head. It’ll bark. At us. For *hours*.” Bill leaned in, serious. “We bring bacon. Corgis can be bribed with love. And bacon. I once bribed a police dog with a Philly cheesesteak. Worked like a charm. She let me steal her Frisbee.” Molly checked her watch. 8:52. The party would start soon. “We need to blend in. Hats. Scarves. Something that says ‘I don’t know what a piñata is.’” Bill rummaged through his duffel (stuffed with a rubber chicken, a box of glitter, and a whoopee cushion) and tossed her a dinosaur bandana. “Found this in the bathroom. The Harringtons color-coded the decor. Smart. You’ll fit right in. And I’ll be ‘Uncle Bill.’” “Uncle Bill who hasn’t seen his niece since 2019.” “Semantics. Kids forget. Like goldfish. Except goldfish can’t be mad you stole their presents.” “They’ll *remember* the presents missing.” Bill grinned. “Then we leave a note. ‘Sorry, tiny trex. Your toys were *begging* for a heist.’” Molly sighed, but she was smiling. “The Harringtons will notice. Mrs. H counts her presents like they’re gold. She’ll check the list, and there’ll be 12 missing, not 11.” Bill paused. “Then we leave an extra present. A box of crayons. ‘Oops! We meant to take these.’” “They’ll know we did it. Crayons don’t hide a minus sign.” Molly stood, dusting off her overalls. “We go in at 9:15. Distract the dog with bacon. Trigger the motion sensor. Grab the presents—there’s a big one under the t-rex piñata—stack ’em in the duffel, and dip. The party’ll be over in an hour, and they’ll be too busy cleaning candy off the floor to notice we’re gone.” Bill nodded, already attaching the glow stick to the chicken. “And if the butler asks questions? We say we’re fixing the leaky faucet. He doesn’t need to know we’re fixing *his* ruination.” “Fixing his *ruination*? Bill, he’s a butler. He’ll probably ghost us.” Bill winked. “Then we ghost him. Gold standard.” Molly grabbed the bandana, looping it around her head. “Let’s go. And if you start singing ‘Baby Shark’ when we escape, I’m leaving you here. With the corgi. And the bacon.” Bill hoisted the duffel, chicken swinging. “Deal. But watch this—” He turned on the chicken, which burst into a chorus of beeps and a terrible version of “Yankee Doodle.” Molly covered her ears. “I swear to God—” “It works on toddlers!” They slipped out the back door, the glow stick chicken trailing a faint pink light. Somewhere, a t-rex piñata creaked, unaware. The night was young. And the presents? They were about to get a heist.