Run: 2026-03-18-01KM079VFBGBQCKGBK64QZTKA5

Molly crouched behind a potted ficus that looked like it had survived three divorces and a lightning strike, watching the front door through the gap in its leaves. Bill stood to her left, holding a clipboard that had no writing on it, as if paper alone could convince fate to cooperate. “Your plan is to break in during a birthday party and steal the presents,” Bill whispered, like the word “steal” was going to summon a substitute teacher. “Yes,” Molly said, adjusting the suction-cup disguise badge on her forehead. It read HELLO, I’M A NANNY, though the font was clearly written by a dyslexic printer. “But to be clear, we’re not stealing the joy.” Bill squinted at the badge. “That sentence doesn’t help your credibility.” Molly leaned closer. “We’re liberating the loot.” From inside, laughter burst out—high, bright, and unrepentant. A voice announced, “Okay! Everyone, it’s time for the piñata!” followed by a chorus of excited stomping that sounded like a herd of toddlers trained for war. Bill chewed the end of a pen. “Do we know if the presents are insured?” Molly reached into her bag and produced a roll of duct tape, a roll of duct tape, and then a third roll of duct tape, like she’d been nesting duct tape during her childhood. “We are not asking insurance questions until after we’re out.” Bill nodded gravely. “Right. Like dentists.” “Exactly,” Molly said, then glanced at his clipboard again. “Why do you have that?” Bill flipped the clipboard around. There was still nothing on it. “I’m visualizing success.” Molly made a skeptical sound. “You once visualized a hot air balloon and ended up falling into a kiddie pool.” “That was still partially success,” Bill said. “The pool was warm.” Molly tapped her earpiece—there was no earpiece. “Okay. We’ll go in through the side gate. The key is… we don’t have keys.” Bill stared. “That’s the key?” “It’s a figure of speech,” Molly said. “We’ll just—” A gust of music floated over the fence. Someone was singing “Baby Shark” with the intensity of a person trying to summon Wi-Fi. Bill’s eyes widened. “Oh no.” Molly paused. “What?” “Imagine the party playlist,” Bill whispered. “It’s always five songs on repeat. We’re going to lose our minds.” “We’re criminals,” Molly said. “We can handle repetition.” Bill pointed at the front door. “Is that a security system?” Molly followed his gesture. A small camera sat above the porch light, blinking steadily like it was eating calories for breakfast. “We’ll need to disable it,” Bill said. Molly reached into her pocket and pulled out a tiny remote the size of a chocolate chip. “Got it.” Bill blinked. “Where did you get that?” “Online,” Molly said. “From a website that promised ‘honest-to-goodness invisibility for cameras.’ It was five dollars and morally suspicious.” Bill smiled nervously. “I love morally suspicious.” Molly pressed the remote. The camera’s blinking stopped. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the porch light flickered and the camera emitted a cheerful chime, like it was delighted to see them. Bill leaned in. “Why is it happy?” Molly frowned. “Maybe it’s not disabled. Maybe it’s just… distracted.” Inside, the voice called again, “Time for presents in five minutes!” Bill’s stomach tightened. “Five minutes?” Molly stood. “We’ll be fast. We’ll be careful. We’ll take only the presents.” Bill held up a finger. “We should probably clarify what ‘the presents’ means. There might be something like a birthday card. Are we stealing the card too?” Molly shrugged. “Depends how cute the handwriting is.” Bill gasped. “Molly.” “What? We’re thieves, not monsters.” Bill pointed to the porch. A footman’s bell sat by the door, complete with a sign that read PLEASE RING. It was the kind of sign that begged for mischief and lawsuit. Molly removed a thin strip of metal from her bag, slid it into the bell’s side with the reverence of a surgeon, and gently rerouted the motion so the bell stayed still. Bill watched, impressed. “That’s… disturbingly elegant.” “I practice,” Molly said, then gestured at the gate. “Now go. Take the lead.” Bill swallowed. “Why me?” Molly grinned. “Because you look less like a criminal. Mostly you look like a guy who lost a bet with a magician.” Bill approached the gate and tried the latch. It clicked open immediately, as if the world wanted them to succeed. He stared at it. “Did you plan for this?” he asked. “I don’t plan for luck,” Molly said. “I just accept it.” Bill slipped through first, careful as a librarian. Molly followed, her duct tape rolls clinking softly like angry tambourines. They moved along the side path toward the living room, where paper crinkled and wrappers rustled behind a cloud of balloons. Molly’s eyes tracked the nearest stack of gifts: pastel boxes, ribbon bows, and one enormous teddy bear that looked like it had opinions. Bill whispered, “Okay. How do we carry all of them?” Molly pulled out a collapsible wagon from her bag, the kind meant for groceries and moral compromise. It snapped open with a satisfying clack. Bill stared at it. “That’s a kid’s wagon.” Molly’s smile widened. “Exactly. Nobody questions a kid’s wagon. Nobody suspects… a responsible-looking adult with a wagon.” Bill’s expression turned pained. “We are not responsible-looking adults.” “Shh,” Molly said, pushing the wagon forward. “Stealth is about confidence. Confidence is about lying with your face.” They reached the doorway. Inside, a clown was setting up a backdrop with the seriousness of an engineer. Kids chanted “PRESENTS! PRESENTS!” as the adults laughed and clapped like they’d invented joy. Molly leaned toward Bill, voice barely there. “Ready?” Bill swallowed, then nodded. “Ready.” Molly grabbed the first gift—an engraved wooden train set—before anyone could notice, and Bill lifted a second box labeled TO: BEST BUDDY with the reverence of a thief who’d once watched too many documentaries. As the clown turned away, Molly and Bill moved in synchronized silence. For a second, the only sound was the crinkle of tape, the squeak of the wagon wheels, and the far-off memory of laughter that would soon have nowhere to land.