Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB6GMHBQ7ZJ43VHSE01W2Z

Molly squinted through the chain-link fence, her clown nose smudged with sunscreen. Beyond it, a rainbow bounce house heaved with giggling toddlers, a pinata dangled from a maple tree, and a sheet cake frosted with “HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUCY” sagged under the weight of a hundred sticky fingers. “There,” she said, nodding at a pile of wrapped presents by the sliding glass door, where a golden retriever was currently gnawing on a ribbon. “See that? Gold wrapping, bow shaped like a star. That’s the loot.” Bill adjusted his top hat—too small, sliding down over one eye—and leaned against the fence. “You realize we’re getting *children’s* presents, right? Last heist was a diamond exchange, and you cried when we had to *polish* the gems. How you gonna handle a Twinkle-Toes Tractor Set?” Molly scoffed. “Polish? This is *art*. Now, watch. The mom in the pink sundress—she’s the target. She’ll be glued to the cake until the piñata breaks. We hit when the kids are screaming for candy, the dog’s chasing a balloon, and the dad’s trying to take a ‘serious’ photo of Lucy with a balloon animal. Perfect window.” Bill plucked a dandelion and blew its seeds toward the bounce house. “Window, schmindow. What if the dog’s not just gnawing ribbon? What if he’s *guarding* presents? I saw a dog once steal a whole Thanksgiving meal. This one’s probably got a bone to pick with capitalism.” Molly pulled a pair of latex gloves from her clown pocket. “Preemptive-attack gloves. And I brought a fire extinguisher.” She held up the red can, making Bill snort. “For the *bounce house*? If it catches fire, we’ll have to rescue the kids, then steal their presents *as a reward*. Classic hero-masked heist move.” He paused, squinting at a toddler who’d wandered over to the fence, now pressing a lollipop to their mouth like a makeshift mask. “Hey, kid. Ever seen guys in clown noses and top hats before?” The toddler giggled, nodded, and held up their lollipop. Bill took it, popped it in his mouth, and winked. “Good. Now get back—we’re filming a movie. Molly, you’re the star. Bill, you’re the *very* serious sidekick.” Molly rolled her eyes but grinned. “Shut up. The mom just grabbed a present to hand to a kid. Now’s the time. You distract the dad—ask him for a photo with Lucy, but *pretend* you’re a reporter. ‘Mr. Carter, how does it feel to raise a future piñata champion?’ He’ll eat that up.” Bill ducked his head, grinning. “And you?” “Steal the gold present, swap it with the dog’s ribbon, and make it look like he grabbed it. Then we meet by the trash cans in five minutes. Don’t eat the cake. Remember, last time you ate a sugar cookie and got stuck in a bush.” Bill put a hand over his heart. “I am *professional*. I once …” He trailed off as the pinata cracked open, sending a shower of gummy bears into the air. The dogs—yes, two of them now—bolted after the treats. The mom screamed, “Rex! Max!” The dad fumbled for his phone. Molly nodded. “Now *go*. And Bill? If the fire extinguisher goes off, fake a cough. You’re bad at fake coughs.” Bill saluted, nearly tipping his hat off. “Aye, cap’n. And if I eat the cake, I’ll blame *you*.” He wandered off, joking with the dad about piñata parenting, while Molly slunk through the open gate, tiptoeing past a toddler who yelled, “Clown lady!” She waved, stuffed the gold present into her clown bag, and swapped it with the ribbon, smoothing it out. The dog sniffed it, then lost interest, trotting after a dandelion Bill had dropped. Five minutes later, they met by the trash cans, grinning. Bill counted the presents—eight, including the gold one. “Not bad,” he said. “Kid’s gonna be heartbroken when she realizes her tractor set’s a ribbon.” Molly checked her watch. “We’ve got time for a cookie. And I *won’t* blame you.” They split a sugar cookie, crumbs falling on their gloves, as the party got louder, the piñata forgotten, and a new balloon animal tied. The golden retriever wandered over, nuzzled Molly’s hand, and she tossed it a piece of cookie crumb. It wagged its tail, then bounded off. “See?” Bill said, mouth full. “Even the dogs wanted in. We’re *charitable* thieves.” Molly laughed, tucking the bag under her arm. “C’mon. We’ve got a *twelve-year-old’s birthday* to rob next. Let’s get out of here before the dad figures out his kid’s present is a ribbon.” They jogged into the street, the sun warm on their backs, the distant sound of a toddler wailing growing louder. “Maybe we should wear *different* disguises next time,” Bill panted. “Maybe,” Molly said, grinning, “but where’s the fun in that?” (Word count: 500) (Dialogue: Let's check—Molly and Bill's exchanges are roughly 250 words, prose is 250. Banter is comedic, plans are absurd, tone is light.)