Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB7ZMY5Y1G7VS30PXZRHSN

Molly adjusted her ski mask, the elastic biting into her forehead as she squinted at the inflatable T-Rex looming over the backyard. The party lights flickered like a disco for toddlers, and the distant wail of a child’s laughter made her stomach clench. Not from guilt—from the sheer absurdity of it all. “You’re sure this is the right house?” Bill whispered, his voice trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. He clutched a bag of stolen party favors—noise makers, plastic swords, a single half-eaten cupcake—like they were holy relics. “Positive,” Molly hissed, nudging him forward. “The invite said ‘RSVP by 3 PM,’ and it’s 3:05. That means the parents are *definitely* distracted by their own social climbing.” Bill swallowed hard. “What if the kid’s a genius? Like, a five-year-old Einstein who can solve Rubik’s Cubes blindfolded?” “Then we’re screwed,” Molly admitted. “But I’ve scoped this out. The presents are under the tree in the living room, which is right next to the kitchen. Parents will be too busy refilling punch bowls to notice us.” Bill’s eyes darted toward the house. “What if the dog bites me?” “Then we leave you behind as a distraction. ‘Oh no, the dog’s *eaten* the thief!’” A child’s shriek echoed from inside. Bill flinched. “That sounded like a murder.” “That’s just Timmy learning to express his emotions,” Molly said, already picking the lock on the back door. “Now shut up and help me carry this.” Bill stared at the shopping cart they’d “borrowed” from the grocery store. “We’re stealing a *cart*?” “For the presents,” Molly explained. “We’re not animals. We don’t want to be seen dragging a sack of Lego and dolls like we’re in a bad heist movie.” The door creaked open. Molly slipped inside, Bill hot on her heels, the cart rolling ahead like a mechanical tortoise. The house smelled like cake and glitter. Somewhere, a parent was singing “Happy Birthday” off-key. “Okay,” Bill whispered. “Plan?” “We go left,” Molly said, pointing toward the living room. “You grab the presents, I’ll handle the parents if they come snooping.” Bill’s face paled. “What if they *shoot* me?” “Then we’ll say you were the birthday boy’s imaginary friend who got *too* into the presents.” A sudden crash came from the kitchen. Molly froze. “Did you just knock over a piñata?” “No!” Bill hissed. “That was *you*!” “It was *not*—” Molly cut herself off as a woman in a sparkly dress rounded the corner, holding a plate of cookies. “Oh! Hi! We’re here for the—” “The *what*?” the woman blinked. Bill, in a panic, grabbed the nearest present—a giant stuffed unicorn—and held it up. “Uh. The *unicorn*? For the party?” The woman stared. Then she smiled. “Oh! You’re the clown!” Molly’s brain short-circuited. “The *clown*?” “Yeah!” the woman said, handing Bill a cookie. “We hired one last minute. You’re early.” Bill took the cookie and immediately regretted it. “We’re *not* the clown.” Molly grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the presents. “We’ll just… take the presents. Quickly.” “But we’re *supposed* to be the clown!” Bill whispered desperately. “Then *act* like one!” Molly hissed, snatching a bag of presents. “Do a handstand! Juggle balloons!” Bill’s eyes widened. “I *hate* balloons.” “Then *honk* like a horn!” Bill let out a high-pitched “HONK!” just as a child came barreling into the room, screaming, “CLOWN! CLOWN!” Molly groaned. “We are *so* dead.” Bill, now fully committed to the bit, did a terrible backflip—right into the Christmas tree. The presents rained down like confetti. The child giggled. The parents cheered. Molly sighed, watching Bill untangle himself from the tinsel. “Well. That’s one way to get the job done.” Bill dusted himself off, holding a single, half-crushed present. “Next time, let’s just rob a bank.” Molly grinned. “Deal. But only if they serve cake.”