Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAA4KX39XGR4B3FJ5JM19N

The grease-stained vinyl booth of Marty’s Diner stuck to Molly’s jeans as she flipped a crumpled menu closed, the jukebox in the corner blaring a tinny cover of a children’s lullaby. “Got a mark you won’t believe,” Bill said, prodding a cold fry into a puddle of ketchup. “Let me guess—another old lady’s coin jar? We still haven’t spent the dimes from last week,” Molly said. “Better. A seven-year-old’s princess-themed birthday party at the community center,” Bill leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Presents?” Molly raised an eyebrow, her fingers tapping the edge of the menu. “Trunkloads. The mom’s a local realtor—brags on Facebook about custom dollhouses and silver-plated toy tea sets,” Bill said, sliding a crumpled screenshot across the table. “You’re insane. Parents everywhere. Screaming kids. A piñata that’ll sound like a war zone,” Molly said, but she was squinting at the screenshot’s photo of the dollhouse. “Exactly—chaos is our cover. I’ve mapped the layout: presents are in a locked closet by the stage,” Bill said, tapping the corner of the paper with a grease-stained finger. “How do we get the key?” Molly asked. “The party planner wears a lanyard—she’s got a thing for giant lollipops. I’ll distract her with a ‘balloon emergency’—let a bunch of helium ones float to the ceiling, she’ll panic and drop the lanyard,” Bill said, grinning. “And me?” Molly said. “Swipe the key, hit the closet, stuff as much as you can into that canvas bag you hide under your bed—you know, the one with the unicorn patch,” Bill said. “Don’t mock the unicorn patch. It’s camouflage at kid events,” Molly said, crossing her arms. “Fair. Timeline: 3pm sharp, when the piñata drops. Everyone’s staring at the candy avalanche—no one’ll notice the closet door creak,” Bill said. “What about the bouncer by the door?” Molly asked. “He’s a part-time clown—hates his job. I’ll slip him a $20 to ‘take a five-minute break’ to get a soda,” Bill said. “$20? We could’ve used that for gas,” Molly said. “Worth it. Besides, we’ll make it back tenfold with the dollhouse,” Bill said. “What if a kid catches me?” Molly asked, suddenly nervous. “Tell ’em you’re the ‘present fairy’s assistant’—they’ll eat it up. Kids believe anything with sparkles,” Bill said, popping a fry into his mouth. “I don’t carry sparkles,” Molly said. “I’ve got a glitter pen in my pocket. I’ll slip it to you before we go,” Bill said. “Fine. But one condition: I get the leftover chocolate cupcake with the pink sprinkles. The one in the screenshot,” Molly said. “Deal. But if you get caught stealing a cupcake mid-heist, I’m disavowing you,” Bill said. “Like you didn’t disavow me when I got stuck in that laundry chute last month?” Molly said. “That was different—you tried to bring a goldfish bowl with you,” Bill said. “Hey, it was a fancy goldfish bowl. Worth something,” Molly said. “Sure it was. Now, let’s run through the steps again—no mistakes this time,” Bill said, leaning back as a waitress slammed a plate of pancakes down between them, her eyes narrowing at their crumpled paper. Molly slid the screenshot into her pocket, her thumb brushing the unicorn patch on the edge of her jacket, already mentally calculating how many toy tea sets would fit in her bag before the cupcake was hers.