Run: 2026-03-18-01KM086ZRPX7KRQ5455GHNSTNW

Molly crouched behind the frosting table, listening to the squeak of balloons like it was a guard dog learning to sing. “Okay, Bill, tell me you memorized the floor plan, not the pudding flavors.” Bill slid a laminated map out of his jacket like it was contraband cheese. “I memorized both. The pudding is a secondary concern.” He squinted. “Main concern: we break in through the gift closet, avoid the bouncy castle, and—” “And don’t get hypnotized by the clown’s eyebrows,” Molly finished, rolling her eyes. “Those eyebrows could recruit soldiers.” Bill grinned. “Nothing recruits like confusion. I’m pretty sure they’re actually moving when the kids aren’t looking.” Molly checked her toolkit: suction-cup lock picks, a tiny stethoscope, and a roll of duct tape labeled “EMERGENCY FRIENDSHIP.” “All right. The party starts in ten minutes. Are the parents distracted yet?” Bill nodded toward the hallway where muffled laughter swelled and thumped against the walls. “They’re distracted. One of them just told a joke about a goat that pays taxes. Children are currently wheezing like tiny engines.” Molly tapped the duct tape roll. “Good. Kids are the perfect audience for poor decisions.” Bill lowered his voice. “So, our plan: we take every present. No selective stealing. No ‘I’ll just leave the socks because they’re gross.’ We’re professionals.” Molly leaned in. “Socks are always gross. That’s why they’re usually safe. Parents assume nobody wants them and they hide them deeper.” Bill pulled a small device from his pocket. It looked like a calculator, but with a suspicious antenna. “I brought the Present Locator 3000.” Molly blinked. “You named it that?” “It’s not just a name,” Bill said. “It has feelings. And it beeps aggressively when it senses wrapping paper.” Molly held it at arm’s length. “Does it beep at honesty too?” Bill pressed a button. The device emitted an apologetic chirp and went silent, as if it disapproved of his entire personality. “It’s fine. It’s calibrating.” From the living room came the unmistakable sound of a birthday song beginning, slightly off-key, like the house itself was nervous. Molly flinched. “Why does every party sound like someone is summoning the wrong demon?” Bill adjusted his cap. “Because demons appreciate confidence. Like ours. We’re about to steal a forest of joy.” Molly’s eyes gleamed. “And we’ll do it gently. We’re not monsters. We’re… emotionally opportunistic.” Bill pointed toward a hallway door marked GIFT STORAGE in cheerful marker. “That door. We pop the lock, slide the presents into the wagon, and—” “And we don’t trigger the motion sensor,” Molly said, checking the ceiling corners. “I’m seeing red dots.” Bill swallowed. “Those might just be the decorative lights.” Molly stared. “Bill, decorative lights don’t aim like laser pointers. They’re assessing us.” Bill raised both hands. “I can handle a little assessment. I’m very good at pretending I belong.” Molly whispered, “We don’t belong. We’re thieves in the clothing of innocent adults, which is basically cosplay for crime.” The doorbell rang. A chorus of “Oooooh!” followed, and feet padded across the floor like a stampede rehearsing choreography. Molly glanced at Bill. “When they open the door, I’ll distract them with the emergency friendship duct tape.” Bill’s grin returned, relieved. “You can talk people into anything, Molly. Even if you say ‘This is for a craft’ while holding a lock pick.” Molly sighed. “It’s not a lie if I sound like I’m doing arts and crafts. Now—once we’re in—” Bill interrupted, voice urgent. “Once we’re in, we grab everything. But I want the dinosaur set. I’ve always wanted the dinosaur set.” Molly softened. “Fine. Dinosaur set first. Everything else after. But if there’s anything labeled ‘For the birthday boy’s memory box,’ we take that too. That’s basically a gift with a trapdoor.” Bill nodded solemnly. “Agreed. Memory boxes are just presents wearing emotional camouflage.” Molly held up her stethoscope. “Okay, listen to me. If any parent catches us—” Bill cut in. “We apologize. We compliment their cake. We say we’re ‘helping with the surprise.’” Molly’s face tightened. “We do not say ‘surprise’ like we’re part of the surprise. That makes people suspicious.” Bill shrugged. “Then we say ‘activity.’ Parents love activities. They think it’s educational.” Molly took a breath, then tapped the lock gently. “All right, Bill. Remember: slow hands, quiet footsteps, and absolutely no sneezing on the wrapping paper.” Bill leaned closer, whispering like a confidential storm. “I don’t sneeze. I respect the sanctity of gifts.” Molly smiled. “Good. Because if you sneeze, I’m blaming you for the clown eyebrows.”