Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYABRND4NB3AAYE49Z4PYRA

Molly stirs burnt coffee in a grease-stained diner booth, crumpled children’s party invitation spread between her and Bill, who picks at a chipped sugar shaker until flecks rain onto the paper’s cartoon unicorn. Bill freezes when Molly taps the invite’s photo of a diamond bracelet peeking out of a wrapped gift. He glances at the diner’s faded unicorn mural, as if judging his future costume, then slumps back. A waitress slams a plate of cold fries between them; Molly grabs one, cramming it into her mouth while adjusting a crumpled backyard map she’d sketched—gift table marked red X, pinata above a plastic playhouse. She squints at the invite’s fine print: party starts at 3 p.m., pinata time at 4:15, cake cutting at 4:30. “You sure this isn’t a new low?” Bill mumbles, prodding the unicorn with a greasy finger. “Kids will cry. I once saw a toddler throw a fit over a broken lollipop that lasted an hour.” “Hence the distraction,” Molly retorts. “You’ll dress as the unicorn mascot—breathable mesh, I stole it from a clearance rack—trip the pinata rope mid-song.” “I’m not wearing a suit in July,” Bill says, sugar shaker clattering. “I sweat through a hoodie last week just waiting for a purse snatch.” Molly slides the map closer, tracing the playhouse where Bill’ll stash stolen presents until they can escape. She checks the diner’s clock, as if counting down the hours until his mascot debut, and takes another fry. Bill glares at the mural, then takes a cold fry, chewing slowly while staring at the map’s pinata line. “It’s mesh,” Molly repeats, tapping the map’s red X. “Hidden pocket for the diamond bracelet. Target the grandma’s gift first—she’s the guest of honor.” “What if the parents catch me?” Bill asks. “I’ll be the caterer’s assistant,” Molly says. “Distract them with burnt hot dogs and fake allergy scares—they’ll panic too much to notice.” “Burnt hot dogs? That’s your plan?” Bill scoffs. “Fancy plans get you caught,” Molly says. “Last heist you insisted on a smoke bomb and we hid in a dumpster for two hours.” Bill slumps further, grabbing the map to trace the gift table again, his fingers smudging the red X as he thinks about the dog’s potential bark. He nods, then glares at Molly, his jaw tightening at the thought of the mesh suit’s scratchy collar. She smirks, tucking the invite into her jacket pocket where a fake confetti can clinks against her wallet and a small knife she’d stolen from the diner’s silverware bin. She stands, tossing a crumpled dollar onto the table, and adjusts her hoodie, which has a tear at the elbow from a recent purse snatching. Bill stares at the empty coffee cup, its bottom coated in burnt grounds, then takes one last fry, chewing it slowly as he imagines the party’s screaming kids and the grandma’s confused face. “That smoke bomb was defective!” Bill argues. “Label said ten seconds, not ten minutes.” “Fair,” Molly says. “But if you trip over your hooves, I’m leaving you for the toddlers to maul.” “And what if the dog barks at my unicorn suit?” Bill adds. “Distract it with a piece of cake from your pocket,” Molly says. “I stuffed a mini cupcake in the suit’s pocket for that exact reason.” “When do we meet?” Bill asks. “3 p.m. tomorrow behind the grocery store,” Molly says. “Bring hand sanitizer—kids are germ factories. Don’t forget the mesh suit.” “Fine,” Bill says. “But if I get covered in cake, I’m taking the limited-edition action figures for myself.” “Deal,” Molly says, heading for the door. “And don’t sweat the suit—wait, it’s mesh. Just don’t trip.”