Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAKYE3841RJ8F6KX7M4F70

Molly squinted through a pair of smudged binoculars, nose nearly pressed to the lens. “There,” she said, jabbing a finger at the backyard. “The piñata’s a unicorn. All sparkly. Looks like it’s just *begging* to be emptied of its candy and presents.” Bill leaned in, squinting back. “You call that a target? What if the parents are weird about ‘strangers in the bushes’? Remember the time we tried to hit that dog food warehouse and a beagle started howling like we’d insulted its mother?” “Beagles are drama queens,” Molly said. “This is a kids’ party—parents are too busy dodging sticky fingers and broken piñata sticks to notice two guys in overalls *watching* the piñata. C’mon, Bill. Think about the haul. Stuffed animals, action figures, a *toddler* with a backpack full of glow sticks. That’s easy money.” Bill crossed his arms. “Easy for you to say. You’re the one who suggested ‘sneak in through the petting zoo’ last month. Remember the goat? It headbutted your knee so hard I thought you’d cry.” “Goats are just insecure,” Molly said, unphased. “This is different. We’ve got a plan. First, I distract the dad—he’s the guy munching a hot dog by the grill. I’ll ‘ask’ him where the restrooms are, then dip into the kitchen. You hang back, keep the lookouts. Once I grab a tote, you signal if the coast’s clear. Then we hit the presents while the piñata’s still ‘being broken’—no one’s looking at the gift table when there’s a unicorn in the air.” Bill hesitated. “And what if the presents are… *nice*? Like, actually good? What if the kids have a Lego set we’d *actually* use?” Molly scoffed. “Lego sets? Bill, we once stole a whole suitcase of whoopee cushions. Nice presents are just—*fuel*. You want to argue, go steal a library book. I’m grabbing the glittery unicorn.” A car door slammed. Bill yelped, fumbling with his binoculars. “The mom’s here. She’s got a cooler. Oh no, oh no—” “Relax,” Molly said, but she was already ducking behind a stack of gardening tools. Through a crack in the shed door, they watched a woman in a “World’s Okayest Mom” apron set down a cooler and start unloading cookies onto a plate. Bill poked his head out. “She’s got a *cooler*. Do you think it’s lemonade? I’m parched.” “Not now,” Molly whispered. “Focus. She’s putting cookies on a plate. Kids’ll be swarming in—perfect distration.” She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, tossing one to Bill. “These’ll hide the fingerprints. And this,” she said, holding up a bread knife that looked more like a butter knife, “is our ‘cutting tool.’” Bill gaped. “A butter knife?!” “Metal,” Molly said, matter-of-fact. “Cybersecurity for the 17th century. Now zip it. The dad just picked up a paper plate. He’s leaving the grill. *Now’s* our time.” She inched toward the shed door, pausing to grin. “Remember: if we get caught, we’ll tell them we’re ‘volunteers.’” Bill sighed, putting on the glove. “And if the goat shows up?” “Then we blame the dad’s hot dog,” Molly said, pushing the door open. “C’mon. Unicorn’s waiting.” They slipped out, the butter knife clinking against Bill’s tool belt. Somewhere, a kid screamed. Somewhere, a piñata cracked. And somewhere, a goat howled—probably drama. (Word count: ~500)