Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA8HRM617KVP3RYT27XY7A

Molly stood in the dim garage, the faint smell of motor oil and last summer’s watermelon rind clinging to the air. She flipped the lid off a metal toolbox, sending a cascade of lock picks, a roll of duct tape, and a plastic flamingo (which she’d swiped from a lawn sale last month) clattering onto the workbench. Bill leaned against the door, his shoulders hunched like a man about to argue with a vending machine that ate his dollar. “C’mon, Bill,” she said, not looking up. “You’re paler than the frosting on that dumpy unicorn cake at Mrs. Higgins’ kid’s third birthday. One glance at a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner and you’re gonna start reciting the alphabet backward.” Bill pushed off the door. “Palest? I’m *green*. Stealing from a kids’ party? What’s next? We rob a daycare for sippy cups?” “Sippy cups have resale value,” Molly said, extracting a pair of latex gloves. “And this isn’t a daycare. It’s the annual summer bash at the community center. Mrs. Peet’s kid’s turning five. She invited *forty* kids. Forty! Think of the loot. Forty pairs of sticky sneakers, forty lopsided stuffed animals, a piñata full of lollipops… and the big present—” She paused, her eyes narrowing. “—a bike with training wheels. Pink. For a *girl*. Probably has sparkles. Bill, that bike’s gonna pay for my new lock pick set. The one with the blue handlebars.” Bill scrubbed a hand over his face. “Mrs. Peet’s the granny who yells at the mailman for ‘loitering.’ Last year, she chased a squirrel out of her yard with a garden hose. You think she’s gonna let us walk in there and grab her kid’s birthday present?” Molly grinned, a sharp, catfish-like smile. “Granny Peet’s got a *secret*. Her husband died last year, and she’s been hoarding all the party stuff like it’s a life raft. She’s up there now, arranging the goodie bags, muttering about ‘spoiling the kids.’ I asked Jimmy, the lifeguard, last week if he’d help. He owes me a favor—he tried to steal my surfboard last summer, and I *totally* let him get away with it. Told him I’d ‘consider’ his request if he ‘provided moral support.’” Bill blinked. “Moral support? What’s that gonna look like? You two comparing sunburns?” “Better,” Molly said, pulling a pink party hat from the toolbox and tossing it at him. “He’s gonna ‘accidentally’ spill punch on the cake table. The kids will lose their minds, and all we’ve gotta do is grab the pile of presents by the door. Jimmy’ll herding them into the bounce house. Boom. Done before the ice cream truck arrives.” Bill picked up the hat, squinting at the glitter. “This better not backfire. Last time we tried to steal a piñata, we ended up stuck in a tree for three hours while a raccoon ate all the candy.” Molly grabbed a roll of silver streamers from the corner. “Raccoons are *cowards*. They just *look* tough. Now, put on the hat.” Bill hesitated. “I *refuse* to wear a pink hat.” “Refuse, huh?” Molly reached for a marker, scribbling a mustache on the front of the hat. “Now you look like Bugs Bunny’s evil twin. Kids love Bugs Bunny, right? They’ll think it’s part of the act.” Bill sighed, pulling the hat over his head. “This is humiliating.” “Good,” Molly said, clapping her hands. “Humiliation’s just courage in a funny disguise. Now, let’s go steal some sparkles. And maybe a lollipop. I’ve had a busy week.” She slung the toolbox over her shoulder, pausing at the door. Bill followed, the glittery mustache twitching as he adjusted the hat. Outside, the sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the neighborhood. Somewhere, a sprinkler watered a lawn. Molly smiled. “C’mon, twerp,” she said, grinning. “Time to make the kids’ party *legendary*.” Bill rolled his eyes, but he was already grinning too. The flamingo clattered behind them—Molly had forgotten to put it back. They walked down the driveway, toward the sound of a distant barbecue and the distant promise of forty (slightly gaudy) presents. (Word count: 498) (Dialogue count: ~250, prose: ~248)