Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08JRBF263901KY4EAGY91N

Molly crouched behind a potted palm in the foyer, the kind that looked like it had never once been watered. The house smelled like vanilla frosting and overcooked optimism. Bill slid in beside her on the balls of his feet, carrying a rolling suitcase that definitely wasn’t a suitcase. It was a toolbox dressed up as one. He clicked it open with the delicacy of a bomb tech and the enthusiasm of a kid finding a hidden compartment. “Tell me again,” Molly whispered, eyes flicking toward the living room where balloon animals bobbed in the air like they were deciding whether they deserved to exist. Bill squinted at the glowing clock on the wall. “We wait until everyone’s distracted by the singing llama mascot, then we do a clean sweep of the gift pile.” “The singing llama mascot,” Molly repeated, as if saying it slowly might make it less humiliating. “Do you know how suspicious it is that a llama is singing at a children’s party?” Bill shrugged. “Maybe it’s a llama with anxiety. Or maybe the parents just love performance art.” Molly leaned closer. “Our job is to steal presents. Not critique their entertainment choices.” Bill pulled out a spool of what looked like dental floss and held it up to the light. “This is micro-monofilament. It’ll let us lift the ribbons without triggering the anti-tamper alarms.” Molly blinked. “Anti-tamper alarms.” Bill nodded proudly, like he’d personally invented the concept of paranoia. “The last time I robbed a birthday, the gifts were wired with ‘surprise-sensitive’ pressure strips.” Molly glanced at the doorway leading to the hall. “Pressure strips. Of course. What do they even think we are? Tiny squirrels with sticky hands?” “We’re thieves,” Bill said. “But yes. Mostly squirrels. The job description includes ‘agile climbing.’” From the living room came a burst of laughter, followed by a muffled chorus of “Happy Birthday!” that sounded about as sincere as a cartoon handshake. Molly’s shoulders tightened. “Okay,” she said. “Remind me why we couldn’t hit an adult gala. No llamas. No songs. No paper crowns.” Bill’s expression went solemn, like a man confessing his sins to a priest made of security cameras. “Because adult galas have guards with earpieces and moral compasses. Children’s parties have… enthusiastic parents.” Molly snorted. “Enthusiastic parents are basically weather. Unpredictable, wet, and they expect you to clap.” Bill rummaged in his toolbox and produced two small caps shaped like party hats. They were too clean, too new, too suspiciously festive. “These,” he said, “are disguise devices.” Molly stared. “Those are paper party hats.” “They’re not just paper party hats,” Bill insisted. “They have elastic that covers the forehead and—” he fanned them open— “—incorporate a subtle Velcro seam so we can detach them quickly if we need to sprint dramatically.” Molly accepted one with the weary patience of someone accepting a casserole they didn’t ask for. “You think we’re going to need to sprint dramatically.” Bill tapped the wall gently near the baseboard, where a thin strip of tape held a small device—an alarm sensor, probably disguised as a decorative sticker. “I’ve planned for contingencies.” Molly peered at the sticker. It was a cartoon star. It winked at her with a tiny LED. “I hate that. It’s like the house is winking.” Bill grinned. “Houses do that when they’re excited about crime prevention.” Molly reached into her coat and pulled out a compact jammer the size of a lipstick. “I’m going to neutralize the star’s excitement.” Bill’s grin softened into concern. “You’re sure we should jam the—” “I’m sure,” Molly said, and then, very quietly, “because the last time you jammed something, it turned the stereo into a baby lullaby for fourteen minutes.” Bill opened his mouth, then closed it. He swallowed. “That lullaby was soothing.” “It was humiliating,” Molly corrected. “The parents kept smiling at the hallway like they were about to invite us to stay for snacks.” Bill raised a finger. “Counterpoint: snacks.” Molly sighed and turned her attention to the sticker. She pressed the jammer against it. The tiny LED blinked once, like a thought being reconsidered, then went dark. The house fell silent except for distant singing and the soft thump of a piñata being prepared to fail. Bill exhaled. “Okay. Green light.” Molly’s eyes widened. “You realize you just used the most overconfident phrase in theft history.” Bill leaned in, voice hushed. “Molly. Present theft is 30% skill, 70% confidence.” “That’s not a real statistic.” “It is in my head,” Bill said. “Now, we move.” They slipped out of the foyer and into the living room’s peripheral gloom, passing the balloon animals without disturbing them. A carousel of gift bags sat on a low table—shiny, wrapped, and labeled in looping marker. The biggest box wore a bow the size of a deflated trampoline. Molly pointed. “Focus. We take all the presents.” Bill adjusted his grip on the disguised toolbox-suitcase. “All of them.” Molly nodded. “No leaving behind a single dinosaur-themed candle.” Bill’s face brightened. “Agreed.” A child’s voice rose suddenly in the hallway: “Where’s the birthday cake?!” The room erupted in answers. Bill froze, eyes darting. Molly smirked. “See? Enthusiastic parents. They can summon chaos on command.” Bill whispered, “Ready?” Molly lifted her monofilament like a magician about to ruin someone’s day. “Born ready.” They began. The ribbons surrendered with a soft snip, the paper rustled like nervous applause, and the gifts slid one by one into the suitcase, disappearing with the quiet dignity of stolen treasure. Molly paused, listening to the music swell again—bells, giggles, and the llama’s cheerful warbling. “If we get caught,” she murmured, “we do not speak.” Bill nodded vigorously. “We smile and nod like we belong here.” Molly leaned closer. “And if they ask what we’re doing?” Bill swallowed. “We say—” A parent’s laugh echoed from the kitchen. “There you two are! We were looking everywhere!” Molly and Bill snapped their heads toward the sound. Their party hats sat crooked. Their eyes were too focused. Their hands were still near the gifts. Bill opened his mouth. Molly beat him to it, voice bright and innocent as a sticker. “We were… looking for the bathroom.” The parent blinked, confused for half a heartbeat, then brightened. “Oh! It’s down the hall. But you’re right—there are so many halls in this house!” Bill’s shoulders dropped in relief, like gravity had been turned down. Molly gave him a look that said, Later, you owe me a medal and a new plan. Bill nodded back, silently vowing to never again suggest “green light” in a house full of singing llamas.