Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08RS11FY77QBGQ251VMKZQ

Molly slipped through the porch screen, clutching a roll of tape under her coat. Bill followed with a wagon that squealed once, then pretended it had always been quiet. Inside, the house smelled of sugar and banners, as if frosting could intimidate burglars. A children’s playlist bounced off the walls, turning footstep into a drumbeat. Molly aimed her flashlight at the gift table by the window; there, wrapped boxes stacked in cheerful pyramids, each one tagged with a name written in looping marker. Molly: Bill, tell me the door code. Bill: It’s the same as yesterday—cheese. Molly: Perfect, I brought cheese foam. Bill: Not in the lock. Wipe it off your fingers. Molly: I’m a professional. Bill: Kids’ parties are chaos; keep it quiet. Molly: Quiet like a ninja with allergies. Bill: No jokes. Listen: gifts are by the window, under the banner. Molly: I see them. The wrapping has bows that scream “grab me.” Bill: Use gloves. Last time you left glitter fingerprints. Molly: Glitter is festive, not incriminating. Bill: Incriminating becomes evidence. Molly: Fine. How long until the singing? Bill: Two minutes. Molly: Then we enter during the chorus. Bill: We’ll move on “Ready, set, sing,” and exit on the first clap. Molly: What about the party favors? Bill: Only presents. The favors are bait. Molly: I’m not falling for bait again. Bill: You once ate a balloon. Molly: It was curiosity. Bill: Curiosity didn’t help our getaway. Molly: Speaking of getaway, do you have the cart? Bill: A wagon. It has wheels and good intentions. Molly: Good intentions are not enough. Bill: Then hold the handle, I’ll lift. Molly: Ready when you’re. Bill: On my mark: three, two—Molly: Wait, what if the parents notice? Bill: They won’t. They’re busy pretending this is fun. Molly: That’s the worst cover story. Bill: Shh. We’re past the doorway. Molly: Steal, smile, and run. Bill: Molly—stop smiling like that, you look guilty. Molly: I look guilty because I have standards, Bill. Let's go now. Bill crouched beside an archway and listened for adult voices. Laughter flared, then softened, like a balloon losing its courage. On cue, the host’s clapping began—hands rising, mouths practicing enthusiasm. Molly tightened her gloves, tugging the ribbon loose with a surgeon’s patience. Bill guided the wagon beneath the lowest box, easing it forward. The paper rustled once, a sound loud Molly felt it in her teeth. She pressed the bow flat with her palm, cushioning the noise like a story. Two minutes, Bill had said, and time obligingly behaved like a stopwatch in a heist movie. Molly grabbed a present labeled “Jax” and slid it onto the wagon. Bill lifted the next one, “Lila,” and kept his face blank, the way practiced liars keep their faces. Above them, party lights shimmered, reflecting off the ribbon curls until the whole scene looked like crime documentary. Molly nodded toward the doorway. The chorus was starting. Their fingers moved faster than their conscience, and the wagon’s wheels decided to cooperate.