Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB4NSRR5DMC5X0K9BXZ40K

The back alley behind Sweet Pea’s Party Palace smelled like burnt sugar and regret, the kind of regret that comes from staring at a security camera blind spot for the third time in five minutes. Molly adjusted her oversized sunhat—because nothing says "harmless party guest" like a woman in a fanny pack and a hat that looked like it had been salvaged from a 1980s infomercial—and kicked a soda can down the alley with the precision of a surgeon. It clattered against a dumpster, then rolled to a stop near Bill’s sneaker. Bill didn’t even glance down. He was too busy adjusting the waistband of his "World’s Okayest Dad" T-shirt, which had been a gift from Molly after their last job went sideways and he’d spent three days hiding in a porta-potty at a county fair. "You’re gonna draw attention," he muttered, voice low but carrying the kind of edge that suggested he was one wrong move away from snapping the hat in half and using it as a weapon. Molly leaned against the brick wall, arms crossed. "And you’re gonna look suspicious if you don’t stop fidgeting like a goldfish in a bowl. We’re here to blend in, not audition for *America’s Most Paranoid Thief*." Bill exhaled through his nose. "I *am* blending in. I’m the guy who’s *too* relaxed. The guy who’s *not* sweating. The guy who—" He gestured vaguely at his face. "Look at me. I’m a human question mark." Molly squinted. "You’ve got glitter on your cheek." "From the *last* job," Bill said quickly. "Allergic reaction. Very common." A horn beeped from the street. A minivan idled at the curb, its back door propped open. A woman in a frilly apron waved at them. "You two coming or what? The kids are gonna start crying!" Molly straightened, suddenly all business. "Time to work." She grabbed Bill’s arm and dragged him toward the van. "Smile. You’re here to help with the balloons." Bill’s smile was more of a grimace. "I *hate* balloons." "Then act like it," Molly said, shoving him toward the open door. "Play the part of the reluctant uncle. The one who’s *just* here for the cake." Inside the van, the air was thick with the scent of cake batter and the faint, panicked energy of a dozen children who had just been told they had to sit still for five minutes. A table groaned under the weight of presents—wrapped in glittery paper, tied with ribbons, some still bearing price tags like they’d been grabbed in a hurry. Molly’s fingers twitched. Bill plopped onto a folding chair, stretching his legs out like he owned the place. "Alright, what’s the play? We just start grabbing stuff?" Molly crouched beside the table, peering at the security setup. A single camera mounted near the ceiling, its red light blinking lazily. "No, we don’t just start grabbing stuff. We *strategize*." She tapped the camera. "That’s our only real obstacle. And look—it’s got a blind spot right here." She pointed to a corner where a piñata swung gently, its paper mache grin mocking them. Bill followed her finger. "So we wait for the piñata to swing away?" Molly shook her head. "No, we *make* it swing away." She reached into her fanny pack and pulled out a small, remote-controlled car. "Meet the Piñata Distraction System." Bill blinked. "You brought a *toy car*?" "Toy *tank*," Molly corrected. "And it’s got a magnet. We stick it to the bottom of that piñata, hit the gas, and suddenly the camera’s got a new best friend." She grinned. "Also, the kids are gonna lose their minds." Bill stared at the car, then at the piñata, then back at Molly. "You’re a monster." Molly beamed. "Exactly." A child’s voice piped up from the back of the van. "Miss Molly! Can we open the presents now?" Molly froze. Bill’s head snapped toward the sound. Molly’s smile didn’t waver. "Not yet, sweetie! We’re waiting for—" She glanced at Bill, who was now frozen in a half-crouch, one hand hovering near his waistband like he was considering making a break for it. "For *Uncle Bill* to finish telling his *very important* story!" Bill cleared his throat. "Right. Story." He stood up, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. "So. There was this one time—" Molly elbowed him in the ribs. "Later. Focus." Bill winced. "Focus on what?" Molly leaned in. "On the fact that in three minutes, we’re walking out of here with every last present, and if you screw this up, I’m leaving you here to explain to the parents why their kid’s new Lego set is now in a dumpster." Bill swallowed. "Noted." From the back of the van, a child giggled. "Miss Molly, is Uncle Bill gonna tell us about the time he got stuck in a tree?" Molly’s smile turned razor-sharp. "Absolutely not." Bill’s eye twitched. "I *did not* get stuck in a tree." Molly grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the presents. "Let’s just get this over with." Bill muttered, "I hate my life." Molly patted his shoulder. "No, you don’t. You hate *balloons*." And with that, the first present hit the floor.