Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY97NWV5CAZDKTT2XQ5W3E4

The grease-stained vinyl booth of Mabel’s Diner stuck to Molly’s denim as she leaned over a crumpled neon flyer for Lila’s Eighth Unicorn Extravaganza, her leather-gloved finger tracing the bold print promising wrapped presents stacked by the back porch closet. Bill, slouched across from her, stirred his lukewarm coffee so vigorously a drop splattered onto his frayed ski mask—slung over one shoulder, forgotten in his jacket pocket. A waitress with a tight bun slid salt-crusted fries between them, eyeing the mask before huffing to tend to rowdy truckers. Molly tapped the flyer’s recon note, scrawled in red ink after a midnight trip to the suburban home, and adjusted her hoodie to feel the tuna can for the hissing tabby guarding the fire escape clink in her pocket. “You got the wire cutters for the closet lock?” Molly asked, sharp, nudging the fries away. “Wire cutters? I brought a bubble wand. Thought we could distract the sugar-fueled kids.” Bill held up a neon pink wand, twirling it like a baton. “A bubble wand? Bill, this is a heist, not a playground visit.” Molly pinched her nose, regretting partnering with him post-whoopee cushion fiasco. “But bubbles are universal. Last week I distracted a napping guard with a whoopee cushion—worked a charm.” Bill grinned, pulling the crinkly cushion to squeak it. “That guard snored through a truck backfire. This is eight-year-olds hopped up on cake and rainbow punch.” Molly swatted the cushion to the sticky floor. “Fine, I’ll stash the wand. But what about the unicorn piñata? Candy for side loot.” Bill stuffed the wand back, pouting. “The piñata’s a decoy. Real loot: game consoles, designer dolls, a mini drone worth more than your last three heists.” Molly tapped the flyer’s loot list. “Drone? I could fly it to case future heists from my couch.” Bill’s eyes lit up, forgetting his pout. “Focus. We sneak in during cake-cutting—everyone stares at the sparkler topper.” Molly leaned in, whispering. “What if the cake explodes? I heard the mom makes homemade sparklers.” Bill leaned back, crossing his arms. “You heard wrong. Dollar store sparklers—ten seconds of fizz. Do you know the escape route?” Molly tapped the fire escape map on the flyer’s back. “The fire escape? There’s a hissing tabby that chases me.” Bill shuddered, recalling the fluffy orange cat. “That’s Mr. Whiskers—he likes tuna. I brought a can to bribe him.” Molly patted her hoodie pocket. “You think tuna stops a territorial tabby? Last time he swatted my hat off.” Bill raised an eyebrow. “Last month it stopped a growling Rottweiler. Trust me.” Molly sipped cold coffee, wincing at the burn. “Fine. But if we get caught by cops or kids, I blame the bubble wand.” Bill crammed a fry into his mouth. “If we get caught, it’s because you forgot wire cutters for a bubble wand. Now let’s go—stash gear in the bush before the party starts.” Molly crumpled the flyer, tucking it into her jacket as she stood, boots thudding the linoleum. The truckers’ laughter faded behind them as they stepped into the gray afternoon, Bill’s hand drifting to his jacket pocket where the bubble wand still peeked out, unbidden.