Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY97E0A5A1XPM3YWZN5VC4K

Molly slammed a crumpled, glitter-dusted birthday flyer onto the diner’s sticky Formica table, the paper’s unicorn graphic smudged where she’d squeezed it in her leather-gloved fist. Bill, slouched across from her, picked at a lumpy pancake with a neon-green crayon he’d swiped from a toddler’s menu, his boots propping a chair that screeched when he shifted. The flyer advertised the Lindstroms’ 7th birthday bash—“Unicorn Extravaganza: No Adults Allowed Except Cake Bakers” scrawled in sparkly purple ink—and a tiny photo of a teetering present pile beside a grinning pinata. The diner’s waitress shot them a side-eye as she refilled a coffee cup, her lip curling at the glitter sticking to Molly’s bag. “Target’s the Lindstroms’ 7th birthday bash—presents by the pinata, unguarded by a horde of sugar-crazed first-graders,” Molly said, jabbing the photo with her thumb. Bill’s crayon snapped. “Wait, pinatas? I got a concussion from my niece’s party—she stuffed it with jawbreakers, the donkey bit back hard.” Molly rolled her eyes, yanking a crumpled pastry chef hat from her bag; it glinted with leftover sprinkles. She tossed it at Bill, who fumbled to catch it, the hat landing over his eyes. “Quit being dramatic. We’ll pose as cake delivery—you wear this sprinkle hat, I’m your snack table security assistant.” Bill peeled the hat off, picking a sprinkle from his eyelash. “Sticky sprinkle hat? I still find them in my jacket pockets three weeks later. Also, the balloon arch—last time I tangled in a mylar unicorn tail.” Molly unfolded a crudely drawn map from her pocket, the paper covered in scribbled Xs marking balloon gaps and present piles. A jukebox blared a tinny kids’ unicorn song, making Bill wince. “Glue frosting—don’t eat it. Last heist, you made me pick marshmallow glue from my teeth for three whole hours.” “Three whole hours with a bobby pin. Also—do they have cake pops? I’ll definitely sneak a few if I can,” Bill said, scowling as he drew a panicked pinata on the flyer with his broken crayon. Molly leaned in, her voice dropping to a hiss. She tapped the map’s biggest X—right beside the pinata. “We’ll hit at 3 p.m., when the kids are distracted by the pinata swing. I’ll distract the teen chaperone with a fake unicorn horn complaint, and you’ll haul presents into the fake cake box.” Bill knocked over a cup of crayons he’d swiped, the neon sticks clattering across the table. A nearby toddler gasped, pointing at his sprinkled hat. Bill froze, his face turning red, as Molly hissed and slammed her hand over the crayon cup. “Get down—you’re attracting the target demographic.” The waitress stopped by, dropping a napkin with a scribbled “No Crayon Heists” on it before walking away. Bill stuffed the hat into his jacket, a sprinkle sticking out of his collar, as Molly folded the map, glitter falling onto her lap. She grabbed her leather bag, the map peeking out beside a tube of industrial glue, and nodded toward the door, her boots clicking on the linoleum. Bill lingered, staring at the flyer’s “Cake Pops Galore” banner until Molly jabbed his shoulder, making him jump and knock his pancake onto the floor. The toddler giggled, and Bill scrambled to follow Molly, wiping pancake crumbs from his shirt as they slipped out into the street.