Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9DSJRP2E3NC8FDFH5696T

Rain pattered on the awning above Molly and Bill as they crouched behind a bush, eyeing the twinkling house across the street. The air smelled like cake and wet dog. Inside, laughter spilled through the open window—kids, probably, being herded into an inflatable dinosaur fort. Molly adjusted her gloves. "Three balloons, two paper lanterns, and one very enthusiastic piñata labeled 'HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LUCY,'" she said, voice low. Bill leaned in, his raincoat dripping onto his sneaker. "What’s the loot look like? Games? Stickers? A golden trophy of a unicorn that shoots candy?" Molly snorted. "Toys. Stuffed animals, coloring books, a remote-controlled helicopter that probably cost more than Bill’s last heist tool. The parents will cry, but the insurance covers it—they rented the venue, right? Morons." Bill pouted. "Hey, my last heist tool was a toaster. It worked." "For a microwavable pizza. Not a safe." He sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Alright, planner. How we do this?" She pointed to the side gate—the host, a man in a neon windbreaker, was manning a folding table there, sipping a soda. "He’s got a key under the flower pot. I’ll distract him with…" She paused, scanning the yard. "A lost puppy. Kids love puppies." Bill groaned. "A lost puppy? That’s your ‘distract the guy who’s *literally* guarding the presents’ plan?" "It’s a *cute* lost puppy. And he’s a guy. Guys like cute things, Bill. Or at least, they don’t notice when cute things are a distraction." She zipped open her bag, pulling out a stuffed bear—one of the loot, probably. "This one. Soft, floppy ears. I’ll ‘drop’ it by his feet, start apologizing for the ‘dog,’ and *accidentally* bump the table. Soda spills. He bends down to clean it. You slip through the gate, unlock the back door, disable the alarm—" "Alarm’s just a motion sensor. Last time I checked, motion sensors hate static." "—and grab the gift bags from the pantry. They’re by the fridge, labeled 'LUCY'S LITTLE REBELS' because the birthday girl hates 'girly stuff.' Roll with it. I’ll keep the piñata busy—say, the bear ‘attacks’ it, and I ‘rescue’ you both. Boom. In and out in 10 minutes. Worst case, we get chased by a golden retriever named Max." Bill’s eyes lit up. "A golden retriever named Max? That’s… *my kind of worst case*." Molly grinned. "Shut up. And keep your voice down. The piñata’s getting bashed. If the host hears you snickering, we’re toast." He saluted, but his smile faded. "You sure about this, Molly? Kids’ parties… feel weird." She softened. "It’s not the kids. It’s the parents. They call the cops if a single crayon goes missing. Stuffed animals? They’ll set off a SWAT team. We’re saving those bears from overpriced gift receipts. And you get to hit a piñata. Don’t tell me you’re scared now." He feigned anger. "I’m scared of *your* idea of ‘gentle distraction.’ Last time you ‘distracted’ a guard, you used a whoopee cushion. He thought it was a rat." "That guard was *tall*. A whoopee cushion is a *verbal* thing for tall guards. This is *visual*. Trust me." She checked her watch. "Hurry. He’s already eyeing his soda. On three. One… two… three." They moved, Molly stepping into the yard, the bear clutched to her chest. Bill slunk toward the gate, his lock pick glinting in the moonlight. Somewhere inside, a kid shrieked. Outside, the rain slowed. A laugh from the party echoed. Molly took a breath. "For the bears," she whispered. Bill nodded. "For the golden retrievers." And they ran.