Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9AT4YKGY5HYTGGH5Z4ZXP

The sun hung low, a lazy orange, turning the park’s oak leaves gold. Molly perched on a weathered bench, her hands stuffed into the pockets of a too-big trench coat, cinched at the waist with a neon lanyard swiped from a convenience store. Beside her, Bill fidgeted, his sneakers scuffing a pebble into mulch. His “sneak suit”—a neon forest green polyester jumpsuit—had a coffee stain on the knee, presumably from 7 a.m. spillovers. “They’re *stacked*,” he whispered, nodding at kids swarming a table draped in a plastic cloth, presents with misspelled names glinting like treasure. “Lily-Sue’s Sparkle Palace. Jake’s Dragon Egg (Might Have a Sock Inside). Look at the balloons—unicorn that’s *definitely* heard of syntax.” Molly glanced at her watch. “3:17. Cake at 3:30. 13 minutes. Max.” Bill adjusted sequined “ACTION TEAM” goggles, the lenses smudged. “13 minutes? What if the piñata’s not empty? Another table? What if—” “Bill,” she cut in, a look that could curdle milk. “Presents under the table. Plastic, so I’ll slide a tarp under and drag it into the bushes. You hold the kids. With a *distraction*.” He brightened. “Distraction! Ooh, I got—” “No. Not you teaching a squirrel to high-five.” She pulled a floral whoopee cushion from her coat. “This. Kids laugh at noise. Drop it when they get close. Too busy snorting to notice the tarp.” Bill stared, turning it over. “What if it’s quiet? A dud? What if—” “Bill.” She stood, stretching. “We do this or starve. Last sandwich was a crust with *fuzz*.” He scrambled up, goggles slipping. “Right. Heist mode. *Cha-ching.*” Paused, squinting. “Wait—cake has sprinkles? Can’t focus if I’m thinking about sprinkles—” “Presents first. Then we *consider* sprinkles.” She scanned the perimeter, adjusting her coat. “Now. Check if the dragon egg has socks. For *science*.” Bill nodded, cushion clutched like a weapon. “Science. Gonna be *epic*.” Molly grinned, already inching toward the bushes. Bill followed, tripping over a plastic cone that bounced. The whoopee cushion went flying, landing with a resounding *fart*. A cluster of toddlers erupted in giggles. “Perfect,” Molly said, grinning. “Now *move*.” Bill, still staring at the kids, fumbled for the cushion. “I think they like me.” “Bill.” “Right. *Cha-ching.*” She slipped the tarp under the table. The presents slid off, thudding softly. Bill dropped the cushion again, and another kid shrieked. Molly stuffed the loot into a grocery bag. Time was 3:22. “Cake later,” she muttered, tugging Bill toward the trees. Bill, still cackling, lifted a present labeled “Gabi’s” and peeked inside. “Well. Sprinkles can wait. This is a *stuffed unicorn*.” Molly rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. The sun dipped lower, and the park hummed with laughter. For 13 minutes, they’d been thieves. For the next 10, they’d be rich. And somehow, even with a missing sock and a suspiciously lopsided unicorn, it felt like a win.