Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAT6S8TTQHPTM2271HSQMT

The vinyl booth at Joe’s All-Night Diner stuck to Molly’s jeans like a toddler’s sticky hand, the menu in her lap crinkled with half-erased scribbles of a suburban backyard layout. She dragged a ketchup-stained toothpick across a circle labeled “Bounce House” while Bill shoveled a third stack of blueberry pancakes into his mouth, grease from his stolen mechanics’ gloves smearing the plate’s edge. The neon “PIZZA” sign above the counter flickered, painting his chubby cheeks pink every three seconds, and the diner’s ancient coffee pot gurgled a mournful tune in the background. Molly’s leather satchel slouched beside her, stuffed with a stolen party invitation, a roll of duct tape, and a tiny whoopee cushion she’d swiped from a dollar store—her go-to distraction for jittery kids. “You sure the cake time’s the window?” Bill mumbled, syrup dribbling down his chin. Molly snapped the napkin flat. “Cake time’s chaos—parents filming, kids screaming for sprinkles, no one’s watching the present table.” “Won’t the bounce house guards notice us?” Bill asked, poking a pancake with his fork. “Bounce house guards? Those are 16-year-olds getting paid minimum wage to scroll TikTok,” Molly snickered, tapping the napkin’s “Present Table” X. “Wait, what about the pinata?” Bill’s eyes widened. “Last time I messed with a pinata, a kid hit me with a plastic sword.” Molly rolled her eyes. “The pinata’s at 3 p.m.—we strike at 2:45, right when the face painter’s switching supplies.” “Should I bring my water gun?” Bill asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I can squirt any nosy toddlers.” Molly shook her head. “No water guns—we need quiet. Grab the whoopee cushion when a kid’s near the present table; their confusion buys us 10 seconds.” She tucked the napkin into her satchel, then nodded at Bill’s gloves—his most obvious flaw, since no parent at a kids’ party wore grease-stained mechanics’ gear. He followed her gaze, yelping and yanking the gloves off, shoving them into the diner’s trash can beneath the booth. The waitress trundled over, refilling their coffee mugs with a clatter, her eyes lingering on the napkin scraps peeking out of Molly’s satchel; Molly smiled sweetly, sliding a dollar bill onto her tray before she could ask questions. Outside, a school bus rumbled past, its windows crowded with kids waving paper crowns—reminders of the chaos they’d soon infiltrate. Molly pulled a small notebook from her satchel, jotting down a last-minute note: “Avoid the kid with the neon unicorn backpack—invitation says she’s a present hoarder who checks the table every five minutes.” Bill leaned over, squinting at the note, and accidentally knocked over his syrup bottle, the sticky liquid pooling on the booth’s floor. He scrambled to clean it with a napkin, only spreading it further, while Molly sighed, grabbing a stack of paper towels from the counter. The neon sign flickered out for a full ten seconds, plunging the booth into darkness, and Bill yelped again, thinking a kid had snuck in to hit him with a plastic sword. Molly laughed, patting his arm, then checked her watch—they had 12 hours to swap his mechanics’ jacket for a neon party hat and practice their “harried aunt” act to blend in with the parents. She stuffed the notebook back into her satchel, finished her coffee in one gulp, and stood up, her jeans finally unsticking from the booth. Bill followed, still wiping syrup from his hands, and they slipped out of the diner into the foggy night, their shoes squelching in the puddle Bill had made with his spilled syrup.