Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08SM00BS3VYGGKK4SF3RZG

Molly and Bill sat in the battered white van, engine idling, watching the community center across the street. Inside, children laughed, a kazoo played "Happy Birthday," and somewhere, a balloon popped like a gunshot. Bill cracked his knuckles, then winced—he’d torn a stitch in his leather glove. "So, Molly," Bill said, nodding toward the party, "when you said 'easy target,' you weren't kidding. These people left the side door unlocked. Amateurs." Molly didn't look away from the window, where a clown (terrifyingly bad at balloon animals) was attempting to twist a giraffe. "Bill, focus. Side doors get locked when someone realizes we're here. Besides, we're not here to critique their security measures, we're here for the haul." Bill scratched his beard—that thing had a life of its own. "Yeah, about the haul. What if the kids see us? I mean, we're not exactly inconspicuous. Especially you. That coat makes you look like a reject from a 70s spy movie." Molly finally glanced at him, her long coat flapping dramatically in the breeze—because of course she’d worn it. "Seven out of ten adults wear coats indoors at parties, Bill. The goal isn't to look inconspicuous, it's to *fit in.* And you look like you got dressed in the dark." Bill gasped, clutching his chest. "Okay, first of all, I *always* look good. Second, I was going for ‘trustworthy uncle’ vibes. This shirt says ‘World’s Okayest Uncle.’ Moms love me." Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. "That shirt also has ‘Property of Bill’ written in Sharpie on the inside. Not suspicious *at all.*" Bill grinned. "See? Personal branding." Molly ignored him, pulling out a small notepad. "Plan is simple: wait for the cake. Everyone's eyes are on the birthday kid blowing out candles. We move then. You grab the big stuff—bikes, electronics—whatever’s wrapped like it costs more than my rent." Bill rubbed his hands together. "And the small stuff goes in my sack of holding." "That sack is a *grocery bag,* Bill." "Semantics." He waggled his eyebrows. "I like hoarding. Sue me." Molly continued, "Distraction: one of us knocks over a chair—subtle, dramatic enough to draw eyes. Not *too* dramatic unless you want a kid scarred for life." Bill nodded sagely. "I can do subtle. I’m a professional." Molly gave him a look. "Okay, fine. I’ll let you handle the chair." She scribbled on her notepad. "Ten minutes until cake time. Then we go in, grab, and *go out.* Before anyone notices the clown has started crying." Bill clapped his hands. "Alright, let’s do it. But if I see a piñata—" "No swinging, Bill." "—I’m telling you, Molly, one good whack and we’re set for *years.*" She shoved him out of the van. "Stay on task. And for the love of all things holy, *don’t* say anything about the cake." Bill saluted. "I make no promises, but I’ll try." As they walked toward the party, Bill muttered, "I hope they have gluten-free cake at least. Last time I ate cake, I—" Molly shoved him again. "Not now, Bill. Queuing distraction. *Now.*" Bill sighed dreamily. "Ah, the sweet smell of chaos... and sugar."