Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9J227BACGH3K72QHVJGEA

The rain sluiced down the gutter, turning the street into a silver slide, but Molly didn’t flinch. She pressed her forehead to the foggy window of the minivan, squinting at the glowing house across the way. A ribbon of light snaked through the curtains—*let it stand out*, she’d told Bill. “Toddlers’ parties are magnets for overblown decor,” she muttered, tapping the steering wheel. “Perfect.” “Perfect creeps me out,” came the reply. Bill leaned over, his elbow crumpling a Half Pint ale can. “You ever seen a room full of 4-year-olds with party hats? They’re like tiny raptors with glitter. And *these*,” he nodded at the backseat, where a lock pick set, a roll of duct tape, and a grocery bag labeled “STUFFED BEASTS” sat in a heap. “Stuffed bears? Crayon sets? These are the same presents my cousin got for her 3rd birthday. She still plays with the bear. *I* played with it once.” “Stop whining and look at the presents,” Molly said, shoving a napkin across the console. It had the house number, a scribbled “Presents by door: 12+,” and a note: “Dave will be *snoozing*—he brought a six-pack. Tasted like warm spit.” Bill’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Six-pack? We’re after *toys*, not craft beer.” “*Envelopes.*” Molly flicked a pen at the napkin’s edge. “The ‘goody bags’ are for the *parents*. Old ladies slip cash in those. Last party I hit, a lady put a $20 in one with a sticker that said ‘YOU’RE AWSOME.’ I still have it. It’s my lucky charm.” She winked, then pointed. “There—bike boxes by the front door. That’s at least three grand in cash. Crayons can wait. *Cash* pays for lock picks.” Bill huffed, but he was already reaching for the duct tape. “Fine. But if a toddler asks for my phone, I’m hiding it in my *pants*. Last heist, I got peed on by a 2-year-old. Decent aim, but *gross*.” Molly snorted. “Then don’t make eye contact. Stay behind me—you’re the giant with the pick set. The dog’s barking, though. That’s a problem, right?” Bill squinted at the front yard. A white fluffball with a leash tied to the porch post sat up, tail thumping. “Could be a goldfish,” he said. “They do that when they’re hiding.” “*Goldfish.*” “Relax! It’s probably just ‘woofing’ at nothing. Toddlers’ parties are stressful for dogs, too.” He grabbed the grocery bag. “Ready to turn ‘damage control’ into ‘loot control’?” “Wait—” Molly paused, grinning. “You ever steal from a kids’ party? Remember what happens next?” Bill froze. “…No.” “The world gets a little brighter. ‘Cause those presents go to kids who need ‘em. And the parents? They’ll just buy more. *We* get money for *us*.” She opened the minivan door. “C’mon. The rain’s letting up. Let’s make the neighbors’ kids *very* confused.” Bill followed, tripping over the minivan’s step. “Confused or traumatized?” “Both. Win-win.” She winked, already edging toward the porch. The house hummed with laughter—*ta-da*, *look at me*, *I made a cupcake*—and the front door stood ajar. Molly slipped through, Bill hot on her heels, the duct tape crinkling in his hand. Inside, the presents loomed like treasure chests, and somewhere, a baby wailed. “Okay,” Bill said, muffled, as Molly wrapped her arm around his waist. “First rule: No touching the ‘princess castle’ cake. Second rule: If the dog *does* turn out to be a dog, run.” Molly paused, ear to the floor. The dog was definitely a dog—*woofing* now, closer. “Third rule: You take the bike boxes. I’ll grab the envelopes.” She pointed to the couch, where a man in a “World’s Okayest Dad” shirt snored, his belly spilling over his belt. “Dave’s your guy for the cash. Don’t wake him. He kicks.” “Kicks,” Bill repeated, sobering. “Got it. Kicks, goldfish dogs, and *no* peeing incidents.” Molly opened the first bike box. Inside lay a stack of envelopes, thick and heavy. “Worst case,” she said, grinning, “we’ll tell them the presents were ‘borrowed by a very nice raccoon.’” “Raccoon’s got style,” Bill said. He lifted the next box. “Or a very nice bear.” Molly ignored him. The party noise swelled, warm and loud, and she felt it—the thrill of it. *This* was why they did it. Not for the presents, but for the chaos. The way the world hummed when someone took what they needed, and left the rest to the kids who’d forget the missing toy by dinner. Bill tapped her shoulder. “You gonna tell me I’m wrong about the bear?” “Nah,” she said, zipping the envelope into her bag. “You can have the bear. If it has a bow, we keep the bow.” “Deal.” He winked, then nudged a “You’re a Star!” crayon set into a bag. “But we *have* to eat the cupcake. Someone’s gotta make sure it’s not poisoned.” Molly followed him toward the kitchen, the rain tapping on the roof. Somewhere, a kid shrieked. Somewhere, Dave snorted and shifted. And somewhere, a dog barked—once, twice—before falling silent. Perfect. (Word count: 500)