Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA90WNN0XM2BR209K2E2FK

The park hummed with the kind of noise that made your teeth ache—squeals, a tinny rendition of “Baby Shark,” and the distant crunch of a kid’s lollipop. Molly leaned against a lamppost, squinting at the party tent across the way. It was strung with balloons shaped like sunflowers and pandas, and a piñata that looked like it had been *loved to death* (someone had taped a Goofy ear back on). “You sure this is the right one?” she said. “The invite said ‘Jesse’s 5th,’ and I swear the mayor’s kid’s party is next door. Did you *even* check the name?” Bill wiped his palm on his jeans, then winced—it was sticky with apple juice. “Relax. I cross-referenced the license plates. Clean. And jesus, Molly, you’re turning into a librarian. The party’s got presents. Lots of them.” He nodded at the picnic tables, which groaned under a mountain of wrapped boxes—toddler flickers of color: a stuffed unicorn with one eye, a remote-control car that looked like it was about to explode, a puzzle with a picture of a dinosaur wearing a party hat. “Mostly toys, some clothes, maybe a gift card. But the *star*—” He leaned in, conspiratorial. “—the lady hiding over there. She’s been checking the guest list every five minutes. Big tote bag. Full of cash, probably. Kids’ parties have *good* loot.” Molly snorted. “Kid’s parties have cash? Maybe the mom’s hiding her credit card. Or a kidney. Swallow one of those, and suddenly you’re stuck at a birthday for the next decade.” She nodded at the tottering piñata. “How’re we getting in?” Bill pulled a tool from his pocket—a red plastic toy screwdriver. “Smooth. The lock’s a gravity latch. All we need is a distraction. I’ll ‘accidentally’ knock a table. You slip in, grab the tote, toss it over the fence. Done.” “You *accidentally* knock a table? Last time you ‘accidentally’ knocked a bookshelf over, the librarian called us ‘sabotage apprentices.’” “Hey, the librarian was *wrong*. Books are overrated. Look,” he said, pointing. A little girl in a princess dress waddled past, her pigtails bouncing. “See that? She’s got a present. Let’s take it *first*. Build rapport.” Molly stared. “Rapport? Bill, we’re robbing *toddlers.*” “Exactly. Toddlers have no concept of ‘no.’ They’ll give us their toys *voluntarily*. Then we use them as human shields.” He mimed firing an invisible gun with his toy screwdriver. Molly laughed, then froze. A woman in a “World’s Okayest Mom” apron was standing behind them, eyeing Bill’s screwdriver. She was *way* too close. “Uh—tool,” Bill said, shoving it into his pocket. “For Jesse. He wanted to fix the piñata.” The woman smiled, teeth too white. “Cute. Jesse’s *trying* to fix it, but he keeps hitting it with a spoon. It’s… *progress*.” She nodded at the piñata, her tote bag bulging. “That woman over there? Ms. Higgins. She’s bringing the cake. And the wine. But don’t tell her I said that.” Molly exchanged a look with Bill. Ms. Higgins was in her 60s, knitting needles poking out of her purse, face like a disapproving owl. “Right. Progress,” Molly said, too bright. She gave the woman a thumbs-up. “Go fix that piñata. Go, go, go.” The woman wandered off. Bill sagged. “We’re dead.” “Nah. She thinks you’re a helpful weirdo. Kids’ parties bring out the best in people.” Molly nodded at the fence. It was short, maybe three feet. She knelt, testing its sturdiness. “Tote’s in the van. We grab it, toss it over, then go back for the presents. Act like we’re there to drop off a gift.” “Drop off a gift? We don’t have a gift.” “Steal one. The stuffed unicorn. It’s got one eye. Perfect.” “One-eyed unicorn. That’s our ‘good faith present.’” Bill snickered. “I like it.” A little boy ran past, yelling, “MY BALLON!” and snagged Bill’s sleeve. The balloon—blue, with a shark face—bobbed in the wind. Bill froze, then smiled nervously. “Uh—nice balloon, buddy.” The boy handed it over. “For you! ‘Cause you’re nice.” Bill took it, eyes wide. Molly muffled a laugh. “C’mon, thief of the year,” she said, pulling him toward the tent. “We’ve got a piñata to ignore.” Bill tucked the balloon under his arm, grinning. “Kid’s got good taste. I’m gonna name him Steve.” He paused, serious. “Wait—if we take the tote, does that mean we have to share the cake? With *actual* cake, not just the crumbs in the kitchen?” Molly rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “We share the cake. And Steve. Happy now?” “Delighted.” He adjusted his hood, the balloon flopping over his shoulder. They slipped into the tent, the sound of laughter washing over them. For a second, it felt like anything was possible. Then Molly tripped over a toy truck. “Don’t move,” she hissed. “I’m fine. Just—” She grabbed the unicorn, tucking it under her arm. “Let’s go.” Bill nodded, already eyeing the tote. “C’mon, Steve. Let’s rob a birthday.”