Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9YD0XBTQXEZ9C33DF97YC

The back alley behind Sweet Pea’s Party Palace smelled like burnt sugar and regret, the kind of regret you get when you realize you’ve just agreed to rob a place full of screaming kids and their over-caffeinated parents. Molly adjusted the strap of her fanny pack—loaded with lock picks, a butter knife, and a single, suspiciously sticky candy cane she’d swiped from last year’s stash—while Bill fiddled with the bungee cords on his oversized "Santa’s Helper" costume. The fabric was itchy, the beard fake, and the belly laugh he’d practiced in the mirror had devolved into something resembling a dying seal. “You sure about this?” Molly muttered, eyeing the neon sign flickering above them: *HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LUCY! NO ADULTS ALLOWED (EXCEPT US, OBVIOUSLY).* “Because I swear, if one of these kids starts crying because Santa’s helper is suspiciously good at picking locks, I’m throwing you into the piñata.” Bill adjusted his glasses, which were actually just cheap drugstore lenses taped to a pair of sunglasses. “Relax. We’re not here to traumatize the children. We’re here to *liberate* their gifts. A noble cause.” He patted the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “And besides, I’ve got a *foolproof* plan.” Molly raised an eyebrow. “Your last foolproof plan involved a fake mustache and a getaway car that was, in fact, a golf cart.” “That was *one time*!” Bill hissed. “And the golf cart had *character*!” A distant giggle echoed from inside the party tent, followed by the unmistakable sound of a child opening a present. Molly’s stomach growled, betraying her. “Fine. What’s the play?” Bill straightened his Santa hat, which was slightly askew. “Simple. We go in as ‘Santa’s helpers.’ You distract the parents with your *charm*—” “My *charm*?” Molly scoffed. “I once charmed a guy into buying me a drink by threatening to spill his beer on his crotch.” “—and I’ll ‘accidentally’ knock over the gift table while ‘helping’ wrap presents. Chaos ensues. We grab the loot. We bolt.” Molly crossed her arms. “And how do we explain the sudden appearance of two suspiciously well-dressed adults in a room full of kids?” Bill grinned. “We don’t. We *blend*.” He demonstrated by suddenly crouching and whispering, “Ho ho *hush* now, little ones, Santa’s got a *very* important job to do.” Molly stared at him. “That was the worst impression of Santa I’ve ever seen.” “It’s *subtle*!” Bill insisted. “Like a ghost. Like a shadow. Like—” “Like a man who’s never been around kids before?” A voice from inside the tent piped up, shrill and excited. “Mommy, is that *Santa*?” Bill froze. Molly groaned. “Oh, come *on*.” “Maybe he’s just early!” Bill whispered urgently. “For the *spirit*!” Molly grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the tent flap. “Move. And for the love of all that is holy, *don’t* say ‘ho ho ho* unless you want to explain to a five-year-old why you’re wearing a fake beard in July.” Bill sighed dramatically as they stepped inside, where a sea of balloons, streamers, and at least twenty pairs of wide, suspicious eyes stared back at them. A little girl in a sparkly dress pointed directly at Bill’s belly. “You’re *not* Santa.” Bill’s smile faltered. “No, no, I’m—” “A *helper*!” Molly interrupted, stepping forward with a grin that was equal parts charm and desperation. “And we’re here to make sure Santa’s *very* important job goes *extra* smoothly!” She turned to the parents, who were now watching them with the same wariness usually reserved for door-to-door Bible thumpers. “Right, folks? Nothing says ‘merry Christmas’ like a little *teamwork*!” A woman in a pastel tracksuit narrowed her eyes. “You two aren’t on the guest list.” Bill cleared his throat. “Ah. Well. Santa *sometimes* sends advance scouts. For *logistical purposes*.” Molly shot him a look. “Logistical purposes.” The birthday girl, Lucy, tilted her head. “Are you gonna give me a present?” Bill’s face went pale. “Uh. *We* are the presents.” A beat of silence. Then Lucy’s eyes lit up. “Ooooh! Like *yourself*?” Molly’s smile didn’t waver, but her grip on Bill’s arm tightened enough to bruise. “Exactly like *ourselves*.” From the corner of the room, a piñata swung ominously. Bill’s eye twitched. “You know what? How about we—*accidentally*—knock that over? For *fun*?” Molly sighed. “Fine. But if you mess this up, I’m telling the kids you’re the reason they don’t get ice cream.” Bill grabbed the piñata’s rope and yanked. The thing swung wildly, then crashed to the ground in a shower of candy and confetti. A collective “Aww!” rose from the children. The parents clapped politely. Bill grinned. “See? *Teamwork*.” Molly grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the gift table. “Teamwork *and* a getaway plan. Because if we don’t move *now*, I’m pretty sure that woman over there is calling the cops.” Bill glanced back at the pastel-tracksuited mom, who was now texting furiously. “…Maybe we *should’ve* brought the golf cart.”