Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08CSA35YDAKWETW60AM0JC

Molly pressed her face against the pastry shop window and surveyed the chaos inside—balloons bobbing like confused jellyfish, a clown practicing silence in the corner, and a mountain of wrapped gifts stacked beneath a banner that read HAPPY TINY HEROES DAY. “Okay,” she whispered, “that is either a birthday party or a mid-level municipal event for miniature superheroes.” Bill leaned in beside her, wearing a fake mustache that looked like it had been applied with a paint roller. “It’s a party,” he said. “They always have a mountain of gifts. Like the universe is saying, ‘Here, rob these people gently and pretend you’re not stealing.’” Molly glanced down at their gear. A roll of tape, two tiny prop crowns, and Bill’s newest invention—an LED flashlight shaped like a cupcake. “Our job is to take all the presents,” she reminded him, “without getting tackled by parents named Derek who definitely own a taser.” Bill adjusted his belt, which held a key ring labeled in thick marker: DOOR, STORAGE, DOOM. “I have a plan,” he said proudly. “I’ve heard that sentence before,” Molly replied. “It usually ends with you standing on something that squeaks.” “It squeaks because the house cares,” Bill insisted. “It’s warning us about our impact. Now, step one: we blend in.” Molly stared at him. “We are two strangers in disguises that scream ‘criminal adults in costume.’ You’re wearing a mustache that could qualify as a sail.” Bill sighed and pointed at Molly. “You’re dressed as a giant cupcake.” “It was your idea,” Molly said. “It was a good idea at the time,” Bill said, and then lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. New step one: we walk like we belong here.” They moved along the sidewalk toward the party entrance, their costumes wobbling as if they contained springs. Inside, music thumped too loudly, and a child shrieked with the joy of someone who has never met consequence. A doorbell camera blinked red, watching them like a suspicious owl. Molly lifted a small badge from her pocket—CLINICALLY TRAINED DECORATOR—then held it up to the camera. “Hi,” she said, for no reason other than optimism. Bill mouthed, Are you talking to the camera? before whispering, “You can’t negotiate with tech.” Molly shrugged. “I negotiate with anyone who looks nervous. Which is most things.” A minute later, a woman in a party hat swung the door open. “Oh! You must be the balloon helpers.” Bill straightened immediately. “Yes. We are,” he said, voice bright and wrong. “We bring… balloons.” Molly stepped forward, raising her hands like a professional. “We are here to ensure the children experience maximum joy with minimal inflation errors,” she added. The woman nodded without questions, because parents at parties are in a permanent fog. “Come in! The kids are about to do the gift-unwrapping game.” Bill’s eyes widened. “They have… a game?” Molly nodded solemnly. “A game where they surrender presents.” The woman laughed and guided them inside. “Just follow the instructions from Mr. Jingles!” They turned toward the living room where a man in a jester wig waved an inflatable baton. “Decorators!” he called. “Right this way. We need you by the stack—don’t touch the gift labels, please.” Bill leaned toward Molly. “Gift labels. Labels are where they hide passwords.” Molly’s expression remained calm. “Bill, labels are where they write names of children who are nine years old, and that’s a sacred territory.” Bill whispered, “It’s also the easiest way to identify the good ones.” “Okay,” Molly whispered back, “we steal all the presents. But we do it like we’re on a mission from the Department of Unusually Polite Crime.” Mr. Jingles clapped. “Remember! The kids will pick a present at random. No surprises!” Molly glanced at the stack: glossy paper, bows, and enough noise to drown out guilt. She checked Bill’s cupcake flashlight. The LED flickered like a nervous star. Bill leaned in and grinned. “Ready?” Molly adjusted her crown, then pulled a roll of tape from her pocket. “Ready.” They approached the gift mountain with the confidence of burglars who had practiced in mirrors, which was not comforting. Molly began to peel a bow with delicate care. Bill hovered, listening for footsteps, his mustache trembling like it was also employed. Then the clown announced, “Okay, tiny heroes—gifts go to the center!” Molly froze mid-tape. “Tell me we have time,” she hissed. Bill whispered, “We have exactly the amount of time it takes for children to be distracted by their own voices.” Molly nodded once, fierce and hopeful. “Perfect. Let’s become an unavoidable part of the chaos.”