Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9ESS6059QWN68MSZWVYQR

Molly hunched over the cluttered kitchen table in their rundown apartment, a crumpled party invitation spread out like a treasure map. Bill paced behind her, gnawing on a stale pretzel, his eyes darting nervously to the window as if kiddie spies lurked outside. The target: little Timmy Turner's eighth birthday bash, loaded with presents from doting aunts and uncles. A goldmine of unopened loot ripe for the fencing. "Listen up, Bill," Molly whispered, jabbing a finger at the sketch. "We go in at 1:45 PM sharp. I'll be the balloon lady—big hat, squeaky voice. You? Face paint clown. Kids love clowns, right?" Bill froze mid-chew, crumbs tumbling. "Clown? Molly, you know I got that coulrophobia thing! Last circus, I punched Ronald McDonald in the nose. Hypothetically." Molly snorted, rolling her eyes. "Hypothetically? You spent the night in the drunk tank singing 'Bozo the Booze.' Grow a spine. The presents are stacked in the backyard tent—Lego sets, bikes, that drone Uncle Richy bought. We snag 'em during pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. Chaos cover." Bill slumped into a chair, rubbing his stubbled chin. "Chaos? With snot-nosed terrors hyped on sugar? One grabs my red nose, next thing I'm trampled under tiny Nikes. And the parents—those PTA vultures'll spot fakes a mile off." "Details, genius!" Molly snapped, sketching a quick diagram. "Entry: bounce house side flap, unzip silent-like. I distract with balloon animals—swan, sword, whatever. You load the go-bags hidden in your oversized shoes. Out via the hedge maze at 2:15, before cake time." Bill leaned in, squinting. "Hedge maze? That's the Jenkins' yard—Mrs. Jenkins has those yappy Chihuahuas. One bark and we're piñata fodder." Molly grinned wickedly, popping a bubblegum bubble. "Doggy treats laced with Benadryl. They'll nap like babies. Getaway van parked as the ice cream truck—'Free cones!' we yell, peel out with sirens blaring kiddie tunes." Bill chuckled despite himself, warming up. "Okay, okay. But what if Timmy cries? Kids smell fear, like sharks with juice boxes." "Then you juggle," Molly said, tossing him an apple. "Horrible, sweaty juggle—drops everywhere, diversion gold. We split the haul fifty-fifty: you get the toys for your 'collection,' I pawn the gadgets." Bill caught the apple, juggling clumsily— it bonked his forehead. "Deal. But if a clown hat comes off, I'm yelling 'FBI!' and running." Molly high-fived him, eyes gleaming. "Perfect. Tomorrow, we steal the heist. Timmy's tears, our cheers!" As Bill practiced a honkless horn, Molly folded the map, heart racing with larcenous glee. The ultimate score: joy-ripping rascals, one present at a time. (Word count: 498. Dialogue words: 249)