Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA7MTFCVV7DRVD3EJ5BSK4

Molly squinted through the van’s smudged window at the backyard below, where a trio of toddlers were trying to climb a plastic jungle gym shaped like a T. One was stuck halfway, wailing; her mom, a frazzled woman in a “World’s Okayest Mom” apron, was inching toward her like she was defusing a bomb. Bill, in the passenger seat, was gnawing on a lollipop he’d swiped from the gas station and juggling a glow stick. “Focus, Bill,” Molly said, not taking her eyes off the house. The front door was ajar, and through it, she could see a table draped in a frilly pink cloth, overflowing with presents—at least twenty, if her eye was good. “We don’t just grab the stuff in the backyard. The good loot’s in the living room. Stuffed bears, art sets, that blue fire truck with the working siren.” Bill glanced up, lollipop dribbling. “Blue fire truck, huh? I had a blue fire truck once. My dad threw it in the trash ‘cause he said ‘no more toys till you clean your room.’” He sighed, then brightened. “This one’s *mine* now.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Save the nostalgia. We need to hit the front door at 3:17 p.m. exactly. Mrs. Higgins—” she nodded at the frazzled mom, “—leaves the kitchen unattended every year after the cake. By the time she rescues the kid, the party’s 10 minutes into ‘Pin the Tail on the Unicorn,’ which means the real chaos starts. We’ll slip in, grab the presents, and hit the alley behind the shed. Go, go!” Bill fumbled with the door handle, nearly toppling a half-eaten sub from McDonald’s he’d stashed there. “Alley behind the shed? What if we get bit by a rat? I told you I’m allergic to rats.” “Last year, we got bit by a squirrel,” Molly said. “You cried.” “What? No—” “—and it was a *very* aggressive squirrel,” Molly said, cutting him off. “This year, we wear gloves. Now, listen: the living room window’s unlocked? I checked the bushes earlier. The curtain’s over it, but the latch is rusted. One yank, and—” “—and we’re in,” Bill said, nodding vigorously. “And we grab the bears. The big teddy with the bow? That’s a Build-A-Bear. Worth more than the fire truck. Don’t forget the art set—Crayola super tips, the fancy ones with the glitter.” Molly stared. “Since when do you care about glitter?” “Since I drew my mom a picture once and she cried,” Bill said, quiet for a second. Then he perked up. “Oh! And the cake. The princess cake has blue frosting. Can we take a slice? Just a *tiny* slice? I’m hungry.” “No,” Molly said, immediately. “We’re here for presents, not carbs.” “Fine,” Bill said, huffing. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a squeeze toy dinosaur, tossing it to her. “But if we see the face paint table, we hit it. Those sparkles would look *great* on the glow stick.” Molly caught the dinosaur, turning it over. “We’re *not* taking face paint, Bill. That stuff’s water-based; it’ll ruin the van seats. Now, listen—” A shrill shriek cut her off. The stuck toddler had finally fallen, and the mom was kneeling to soothe her, completely oblivious. Bill grinned. “Now’s the time! Let’s go!” He practically threw open the van door, then paused, looking back. “Wait. What if the presents are in a locker? The house has a basement, right? Should we check the basement?” Molly pressed her forehead to the window. The blue fire truck was still there, the bow on top fluttering in the breeze. “We’ll stick to the plan,” she said, but her voice was soft. She adjusted her ski mask—black, with googly eyes she’d stolen from a dollar store—and grabbed a crowbar from the floor. “Thirty seconds. Be ready.” Bill climbed out, tripping over the glow stick. “Ow,” he mumbled. “ But—” Molly shut the van door hard. Through the window, she watched him sprint toward the house, tripping over a flower pot on the way. He popped up, grinning, and knocked on the front door like he was visiting a friend. A kid around six opened it, and Bill leaned in, whispering something. The kid giggled, opened the door wider, and let him in. Molly sighed, but she was smiling too. She started the van, eyeing the clock on the dashboard. 3:15 p.m. Perfect. Time to wait. And wait. And *wait*. Because Bill, of course, had forgotten to check if the living room window was unlocked. Of course he had. She turned on the radio. A kids’ song blared. She winced, but turned it up. Some thieves, she thought. Some *planners*. But hey. They’d get the fire truck. Eventually.