Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB2SHP2V6820AJPYZNG837

The backseat of Bill’s rusted-out van smelled like stale coffee and regret, which, for Bill, was basically the same thing. Molly sat cross-legged on the torn vinyl, twirling a lockpick between her fingers like it was a baton in a parade she’d never been invited to. The dashboard clock read 3:47 AM, which meant the Thompson kids’ birthday bash was in full swing—cake, chaos, and, most importantly, presents piled under a glittering piñata shaped like a dragon that had seen better decades. “You sure about this?” Bill muttered, adjusting his too-tight sweater vest. “Last time we hit a kid’s party, we got chased by a seven-year-old with a Nerf gun and a *serious* grudge.” Molly didn’t look up from her lockpick. “That was *one time*, and you tripped over the piñata. Also, this time we’re not stealing the presents. We’re *borrowing* them.” Bill blinked. “Borrowing? Since when do we borrow? We’re thieves, not the goddamn library.” “Since the second I saw that dragon piñata and realized it’s basically a treasure chest with wings.” She finally glanced at him, her dark eyes gleaming. “We hit the house, grab every gift under the tree, and split before the parents even notice the cake’s missing.” Bill rubbed his temples. “And how, exactly, do we explain walking out with a mountain of Lego sets and a truckload of stuffed animals?” “We don’t.” Molly grinned. “We *don’t explain*. We’re ghosts, Bill. Phantom gift-givers. The Grinch, but with better aim.” Bill groaned. “We are *not* the Grinch. The Grinch has a heart. We have a van that smells like a homeless shelter’s regret.” “Details.” Molly tossed the lockpick into the air and caught it. “Look, the security here is *nothing*. Some drunk uncle passed out in the living room, the dog’s chained to the porch, and the only alarm system is that one motion sensor by the front door—which, by the way, I *already* disabled with a little something I found in the garage sale bin at the thrift store.” Bill stared. “You bought a garage sale bin.” “It was five bucks.” She shrugged. “Point is, we walk in, we grab, we go. No alarms, no dogs, no seven-year-olds with grudges.” Bill exhaled sharply. “And if we get caught?” Molly leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then we tell them we’re here to *return* the presents. We’re the *mystery gift exchange*. The *unexpected surplus*. The *logistical miracle* of modern logistics.” Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve been watching too many late-night infomercials.” “No, I’ve been watching *you* overthink every job.” Molly reached into her jacket and pulled out a black ski mask. “Put this on. You look like a guy who’s about to get caught.” Bill snatched the mask and glared. “I *always* look like a guy who’s about to get caught.” “Exactly.” She patted his knee. “That’s why you’re the muscle.” Bill opened his mouth to argue, but the van’s engine sputtered to life before he could. Molly revved it a few times, then killed it again. “Alright, muscle. Let’s go steal some toys before the parents remember they have kids.” Bill grabbed the ski mask and sighed. “You realize if we get caught, we’re going to prison for *child endangerment*, right?” Molly adjusted her own mask—a sparkly one she’d “acquired” from a Halloween store last October. “Nah. We’ll just tell them we’re *Santa’s interns*.” Bill groaned as the van lurched forward. “I hate my life.”