Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAYJRA34GK9WBNXHNYZ0E7

Dusk had just bled into evening when Molly and Bill slunk up to 123 Maple, where a sparkly "Happy 7th Birthday, Lily!" banner sagged over a balloon arch that looked like it had put up a fight. A piñata shaped like a unicorn hung from the oak, its paper horns frayed, as if it too had been through the war of childhood parties. Bill leaned against a lamppost, squinting at his reflection in a window. "You sure this isn’t a trap?" he mumbled. "Like, the parents rigged a camera or something? Or—" "Or the cake’s got a GPS tracker?" Molly finished, adjusting the beret that did *nothing* to make her look less like a woman who wore berets. She was already halfway through her third can of spray paint (for "atmospheric cover," she’d claimed). "Relax. The only surveillance here is the golden retriever napping in the window, and he’s more interested in the paper towel rolls than *us*." She nodded at the dog, who yawned and went back to snoozing. Bill stared. "Dog’s got better security clearance than your ex." Molly snickered, nodding at the front porch. A folding table held a spread: cookies shaped like stars, a bowl of fruit that looked like it had been frozen mid-sneeze, and a cooler labeled "Lily’s Lemonade (No Sugar! *Woohoo!*)" by the font. "See that kids’ table over there?" She gestured with the spray can. "All wrapped presents from the ‘neighborhood squad’—Mrs. Higgins with the casserole dish, Mr. Gupta with the… I dunno, a weighted blanket? Probably meant for *him*. But under that pile—" She knelt, pretending to tie her shoe, and pulled a hand-drawn sketch from her pocket. It was a floor plan: a staircase, a kitchen, a bathroom, and a hallway labeled "Lily’s Room (WARNING: CLOSET HAS TOY ROOM BEHIND IT)." "Mom’s gonna be in the kitchen with the dad-bod and the grill, spiking lemonade. We’ve got ten minutes before the piñata’s busted open, and the ‘party games’ start. The loot’s in Lily’s room—twelve presents, maybe more if the grandma from Chicago showed. Oh, and that one over here," she tapped a gift with a dragon on the wrapping, "is remote-controlled. She’s gonna *lose it*." Bill scratched the back of his neck, eyeing a group of kids hooting as they chased a balloon. "What if *they* see us? What if one of them yells ‘thief’?" Molly stood, popping the sketch into her bag. "We’re wearing the costumes Grandma made. Mine’s a ‘fairy godmother’ with a poop-stained apron—*effective* camouflage. Yours? A ‘clown car driver’ who’s *terribly* out of shape. We look like we belong." She paused, grinning. "Besides, if we get caught, I’ll blame you. You’re the one who told me ‘kid parties are the *easiest* marks—no alarms, no security, just a bunch of people too busy singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to notice their wallets.’" Bill sputtered. "I *said* *adults’* parties are easy! I meant *financially* easy, not—" "Not ‘let’s hide in a closet while a toddler eats cake’ easy?" Molly finished, tossing him a pair of rubber clown shoes. He caught them, sighing. "Seventh birthday. Worst age—they still care about *presents*. I bet the remote-controlled dinosaur runs faster than I do." "Good. Then we can outrun it and sell it on eBay. Buy a nice house. Never steal another present. *Promise*," Molly said, though her tone was light. She nodded at the house, where a kid screamed, "Lily! The unicorn’s *bleeding*!" and the dog perked up, ears flopping. "C’mon. Let’s go make a seven-year-old cry into her cupcake. Or… y’know, *happy* into a cupcake. Whatever." Bill put on the clown shoes, wincing. "If we get arrested, I’m blaming the dog. He started it." Molly unlocked a duffel bag, pulling out a roll of duck tape (for "emergencies," she claimed) and a whoopee cushion (for "distractions," she swore). "Yeah. Blame the dog. Let’s roll." They slipped into the yard as the piñata *cracked*, sending candy flying. A kid shrieked, "I got a lollipop!" and Bill paused, grinning. "You know, this could be fun. If we don’t get caught." "Relax. We’re professionals," Molly said, winking. She pointed at the door. "Now go steal a present. And *don’t* eat the cake. The lemonade’s probably laced with… I dunno, lime. Too much lime." Bill snorted, already edging toward the sliding door. "Too late. I already sipped it." "You idiot!" Molly whispered, but she was smiling. The dog lifted its head, as if it’d heard, and yawned again. The party, as always, was in full swing. And so were they.