Run: 2026-03-18-01KM07W8RPZ48MAFJDCCAP8BJ6

The van lurked two streets away, its windows fogged with the mist of nervous breath and the lingering stench of Bill’s infamous tuna sandwich. Molly tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, her knuckles white despite her steady voice. "Alright, Bill," she said, voice smooth as stolen honey. "We’ve got twenty minutes before the party peaks. Cake cutting means chaos—parents distracted, kids hyped. That’s our window." Bill set down the file he’d been sharpening with manic devotion. "So we’re in and out quick. Grab every present under the tree. No mercy for Barbie or remote-control anything." Molly arched an eyebrow. "Greased lightning?" "Yeah, like in that movie." He wiggled the file like a wand. "Seemed relevant." "Greased *Lightning* is about cars," she deadpanned, "and also we’re not here to steal your ex-girlfriend’s potted fern." Bill scoffed, waving a hand. "Who misses ferns? Presents are the prize—action figures, dolls, that *L.O.L. Surprise!* mansion you see in the mall." His eyes gleamed. "Haven’t had a real toy since, what, 1998?" Molly pinched the bridge of her nose so hard her vision blurred. "We’re stealing from children. Which, by the way, is the worst idea we’ve ever had." Bill leaned forward. "Worse how?" She didn’t blink. "Clown’s inside." His face collapsed like a soufflé. "The *clown*?" Molly nodded grimly. "Balloon-animal-making, face-painting menace. One wrong move and he’ll have the whole party pointing at us like human crime-scene tape." "I hate clowns." "Welcome to the club," she muttered, unfolding a crumpled floor plan swiped from a recycling bin. "Living room’s Present Central. Back door’s our entry—kitchen’s clear except for punch-refilling mom. Window above the sink’s our crawl-in point." Bill rubbed his palms together. "Childproof lock? Easy." "A coat hanger isn’t a lockpick, Bill." He reached into his bag and pulled one out by the curve like Excalibur. "Stolen from a Laundromat. Fits *perfectly*." He wiggled it in the air. "If questioned, I’m fixing the window. ‘Ma’am, just tightening it up for safety.’" Molly’s glare could’ve flash-frozen lava. "And the ski mask in *July*?" Bill coughed, hand flying to his neck. "Heat sensitivity. Hard to breathe otherwise." "And subtlety?" "Stealth mode," he insisted, puffing his chest. "Ninja-level. You won’t even know I’m there." "Or ‘guy in ski mask,’" she finished, checking her watch. "Five minutes. Then we move." Bill tossed the hanger into the air and caught it. "If caught, we say we came for cake. Parents never question cake." Molly groaned so loud the side mirrors rattled. Some thieves just never matured.