Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB977ZSEV1NH4DGN21DXJW

Molly leaned against the kitchen table, her finger tapping a crumpled blueprint dotted with stick figures of toddlers clutching balloons. Bill stood by the coffee pot, his own finger stabbing at a smudge of crema on the counter. The clock ticked. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. “Alright, Bill,” Molly said, “let’s talk strategy. Mrs. Peabody’s throwing a ‘Under the Sea’ crawlspace bash. Forty kids, most under six, plus a piñata that looks like a squid. The presents are under a leaky folding table—red ribbons, octopus wrapping paper. That’s our mark.” Bill squinted at the blueprint. “Forty kids. You’re telling me none of them’re old enough to notice a guy with a utility belt loitering?” Molly snickered. “Honey, three-year-olds think their sippy cups are the *Ark*. We’ll blend. I’ll be the aunt who forgot the cake—” she gestured to her stained apron, “—you’ll be the uncle with the ‘world’s okayest uncle’ mug, loaded with… *equipment*.” She nodded at a grocery bag behind him, half-full of rubber gloves, a crowbar, and a roll of duct tape. Bill crossed his arms. “And the alarm? Mrs. Peabody’s got that ‘motion-sensor doohickey’ the sales guy called ‘invincible.’” Molly rolled her eyes. “Invincible? Please. She tripped over her own rug last week and face-planted into a potted fern. I’ll trigger it at 3:17. Only *one* minute. Enough time to grab the presents, swap ‘em with those old action figures we nicked from the pawn shop, and book it before the adults start asking questions.” Bill paused. “Action figures? The ones that look like they’ve been through a dryer? Mrs. Peabody dotes on her kids. She’ll notice the *grunge*.” Molly scoffed. “She’s too busy checking if the piñata’s ‘squidgy enough.’ Trust me. The kids’ll care more about the *size*. A marble-sized gift vs. a *dinosaur*? They’ll forget what they got before they walk out the door.” She leaned in, grinning. “Besides, we’ve got a distraction. I’ll ‘accidentally’ knock over the fish bowl—” “Fish *bowl*? There’s a *fish bowl*?” “Small one. Goldfish named Steve. Kids love Steve. They’ll all kneel to save him, Bill. *Kneel*. We’re clear.” She tapped the blueprint again. “And the presents? We grab the *biggest* ones—teddy bears, Legos, that ‘Magic Mixies’ thing. The parents’ll think it’s a broken toy. They’ll thank us for ‘saving’ it.” Bill sighed, but there was a smile in his voice. “You’re a maniac, you know that?” Molly winked. “That’s why you like me. Now—” she grabbed the duct tape, “—help me wrap the action figures to look like ‘deluxe party favors.’ And if we get caught, we blame Steve. Kids *believe* in Steve. Adults? Not so much.” Bill took the tape, but not before muttering, “If we get caught, I’m making you explain to a cop why you’re wearing a *mermaid* wig.” “*Sparkly* mermaid wig,” Molly corrected, already pulling it from her bag. “And for the record? Steve’s a *hero*. He’s saving the day. Just like us.” They both laughed, and somewhere, the coffee pot dribbled onto the floor. Somewhere else, a three-year-old probably asked for a cookie. But for now, there were blueprints and ribs and a plan. And in the end, wasn’t that all that mattered? (Word count: 500. Dialogue-heavy: ~350 words, 70% of total. Prose sets the scene and physical comedy, dialogue drives the heist planning with contrasting personalities.)