Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08HMPNQW864PSA2HBWKZZ7

The porch light blinked like it was warning everyone to behave, but Molly and Bill crouched behind a hedge anyway, smiling as if mischief were a sport. “Molly, are you sure this is the right address?” Bill whispered, holding a clipboard he had stolen from a dentist’s office. “Because I drew a map and it has rainbows.” “It’s the one with the inflatable dinosaur,” Molly said, wiggling her eyebrows at the towering T-Rex that was currently roaring on a loop of cheerful terror. “Kids love that. We blend in by being… festive.” “Festive,” Bill repeated, like the word was a foreign coin. “My festive disguise is a striped beanie and terrifying confidence. Yours better be better.” Molly tugged a bag over her head; it looked suspiciously like a costume from a thrift store labeled “Last Week’s Ideas.” “I’m going as a gentle present goblin.” “A goblin?” Bill asked. “Great. If anyone sees us, we can say we’re collecting toys for… art.” “We’re not stealing toys,” Molly said, then glanced at the front window where a tree of gift bags glittered like treasure in a cartoon. “We’re liberating them from the wrath of wrapping paper.” “Wrapping paper is delicate,” Bill agreed solemnly. “It tears if you look at it with disrespect. Like my uncle’s sweater. Okay, how do we get inside without triggering a motion sensor?” Molly pointed at the front door, which had a sign that read PARTY SUPPLY ENTRANCE ONLY and a second sign that read PLEASE WIPE YOUR FEET. “The house is basically begging for foot etiquette.” Bill nodded, then produced a tiny shoe brush. “I can do etiquette. I’m practically a diplomat.” Inside, muffled laughter bounced through the walls, punctuated by the sound of tiny squeals and someone yelling that the cake was shaped like a cloud. Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Step one: we arrive as latecomers. Step two: we compliment the party theme loudly. Step three: we acquire presents in a dignified manner.” Bill looked impressed despite himself. “We should also pretend we’re here for the piñata. Everyone respects piñata people. Especially the small ones with sticky hands.” “They’ll never question sticky hands,” Molly said, gesturing to their gloves. “Because we’re professionals. Professionals with gloves. Very normal.” Bill reached into his pocket and pulled out two whistles shaped like cartoon ducks. “When the coast is clear, we signal with these. Quack-coded teamwork.” “Your ducks are adorable,” Molly said, “which is dangerous, because adorable makes me want to adopt you and then also steal less. Focus.” Bill took a deep breath and approached the door, careful as a cat in a museum. “What if the kids recognize us?” Molly leaned in close. “If a child recognizes you, you compliment their shoes and ask if they’ve ever met a pirate. Confidence is the best disguise.” The lock clicked under Bill’s practiced fingers, not loud, just loud enough to sound like a clock announcing it was time for crime-themed bedtime stories. Bill grinned. “Okay. We’re in. Don’t move like you’re about to rob a bank. Move like you’re about to return a library book you absolutely didn’t keep.” Molly slid inside and listened, her smile tightening at the sound of approaching adult voices. “I’m going to grab the big gifts first. The ones that look expensive and probably contain mystery chocolate.” Bill followed her, duck-whistle tucked in his mouth like a secret. “Let’s start with the presents under the dinosaur banner. If anyone asks, we’re ‘guest gremlins’ for decoration.” They drifted toward the living room, where the pile of colorful boxes gleamed under festive string lights, and the entire house smelled like sugar, popcorn, and the faint dread of somebody else’s nap. Molly whispered, “Bill, remember: no stealing from the kids’ favorite person.” Bill blinked. “How do we know who their favorite person is?” Molly pointed at a photo collage by the couch—faces of grandparents, siblings, and one smiling dog wearing a tiny party hat. “Easy. If the present is labeled ‘For Grandma,’ we admire it sadly and take something adjacent.” Bill looked horrified, then delighted. “That’s not theft. That’s… tasteful neighborhood adjustment.” From the hallway, a party host’s voice floated closer, clapping and laughing as if joy could cover up wrongdoing. Molly and Bill froze, then mouthed in sync, “On three?” Bill mouthed back, “On three,” and swallowed his quack-whistle like it was forbidden magic.