Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB19RFB4J893XS990XPQEG

Molly stirred lukewarm coffee in a grease-stained diner booth, crumpling a mayor’s niece’s birthday party invitation into her palm. Bill leaned across the table, a half-eaten jelly donut oozing onto his tattered theft notebook. You sure this is the big score we’ve been waiting for? Bill said. Bigger than the laundromat coin heist—every guest drops a present worth at least fifty bucks, Molly said. Pile’s gonna be taller than Bill Jr.’s treehouse. I could dress as a clown? I got a red nose in my glove compartment, Bill said. Your last clown gig ended with you tripping over a balloon animal and breaking a grandma’s hip, Molly said. No clowns. What if I rig a piñata to explode glitter? Blinds ’em for ten seconds, Bill said. Glitter’s a traceable disaster—we’d be finding it in our pockets till next Christmas, Molly said. Stick to the plan. Party time’s 2 PM, back door unlocked during cake cutting, right? Bill said. Exact—parents are busy filming, kids are shoving frosting in their faces, Molly said. No one’s watching the present table by the coat rack. What about the party games? Freeze dance’s gonna have kids zooming everywhere, Bill said. Cake cutting’s the only window—ignore the games, Molly said. You think there’s gonna be mini hot dogs? I’ve been craving mini hot dogs, Bill said. If you steal a mini hot dog instead of Mrs. Henderson’s diamond bracelet present, I’m leaving you tied to the piñata pole, Molly said. Fair. But can I grab one on the way out? Bill said. Only if we hit the $500 minimum, Molly said. Now, your role: distract the party planner by asking about balloon arch permits—she’s obsessed with permits. Permits? I can rant about permits for hours, Bill said. Remember when I argued with the library about book cart permits? That’s why you’re the distraction, Molly said. My role: sneak to the back door, grab the presents, stuff ’em in the dinosaur-themed laundry bag we stashed behind the bush. Exit through the alley to the bike. Molly slid the crumpled invitation across the table, her pen marking the cake cutting time in red. Bill wiped jelly from his notebook, scribbling a tiny “mini hot dogs” in the margin. You sure no one’s gonna see the laundry bag? Bill said. It’s dinosaur-themed—blends in with the party decor, Molly said. Genius till you trip over a dinosaur balloon and spill presents everywhere, watch your feet. I’ll watch my feet. And the mini hot dogs, Bill said. Focus, Bill—this score pays for our rent for three months, no more sleeping on the laundromat floors, Molly said. Deal. But if there’s a piñata, I’m taking a swing at it after we’re done, Bill said. Fine. But only if you don’t break anything. Again, Molly said. What about the party photographer? They’re gonna be snapping pics everywhere, Bill said. I’ll duck behind the coat rack—they’re only filming the cake and the mayor’s speech, Molly said. You gonna make me practice the permit rant? Bill said. Just don’t mention the library book cart incident—she’s a library volunteer, Molly said. Oops. Note to self: no book cart rants, Bill said. Good. Now, let’s run through the timeline one more time, Molly said. 1:45 PM, we hide behind the bush. 2:15 PM, cake cutting starts—you corner the planner. 2:20 PM, I slip through the back door. 2:25 PM, we meet in the alley. No detours. No mini hot dogs till we’re clear. I hear you, Bill said. But if the mini hot dogs are really good? Molly sighed, slamming her coffee mug down. One. Only one. And it better not cut into our $500 minimum. Deal, Bill said, grinning as he scribbled “one mini hot dog” under his permit notes.