Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08VB6S6HDV68DR7J8F2SHD

Molly crouched behind the hedges like a professional shrub, watching the front door of the suburban house glow with party lights. Bill stood beside her, dressed in what he called “stealth attire,” which was a hoodie with the hood down and a pair of sunglasses that looked like they had been purchased from a vending machine labeled DOOM. Somewhere inside, a cheerful voice announced, “Okay, everyone, circle up for the magic show!” “That’s not a sound you want,” Molly whispered, peeling a tiny roll of duct tape from her pocket. “Magic shows tend to attract witnesses. Real estate agents, therapists, and… children.” Bill adjusted his sunglasses anyway. “Children are basically witnesses with sticky fingers. We’re going to neutralize the problem by not touching anything sticky.” Molly glanced at his hands. They were already holding a balloon animal kit, like he’d planned to charm the air into compliance. “Why do you have that?” “To blend in,” Bill said. “Look, I’m a balloon professional. I can make a dog. Or a sword. Or a—” “A dog,” Molly cut in. “We’re stealing presents, not starting a seasonal job. Focus.” From the house came laughter and the thump of a bounce house being inflated. Bill leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. “I can talk our way past the door. I’ll say I’m with the balloon company.” Molly exhaled through her nose. “You’re with the balloon company the moment I see you open your mouth.” “Harsh,” Bill said, offended in a way that suggested he’d never been mildly corrected before. “Okay, okay. Quiet approach. Silent entry. Like ninjas.” Molly pointed to the street. A wind chime tinkled. A neighbor’s porch light flickered. Somewhere a dog barked as if it had read the security manual. “Ninjas don’t wear sunglasses at night.” Bill’s mouth opened, then closed. “Ninjas do whatever they want.” “Sure,” Molly said. “Ninjas also don’t carry instructions written on their faces.” Bill slapped the side of his hoodie. On the fabric, in bold marker, someone had drawn a stick figure with the words NEXT: CLIMB FENCE. Molly stared at it until Bill noticed her stare and pretended he hadn’t. “I thought it would help my memory,” Bill murmured. “It will help the homeowner’s security camera,” Molly replied. She ripped the marker label off with surgical irritation. “Now. Gloves. Tools. And remember the plan: we don’t steal the remote control toys first.” Bill blinked. “Why not?” “Because if the party dad sees his remote missing, he turns into a bear with a mortgage,” Molly said. “We take the gifts that come in boxes. Boxes don’t have batteries. Batteries have opinions.” Bill nodded solemnly, as if he were learning state law. “Boxes it is.” They slipped through a gap in the hedge, moving with practiced stealth that looked, to anyone watching, like two adults trying to avoid being caught by a Roomba. Molly’s tiny lockpick clicked once, twice, and then the front door latch surrendered with the satisfied sigh of a mechanism that had been underappreciated. Bill held his breath. “That was fast.” “Don’t praise the lock,” Molly warned. “Locks get confident.” Inside, the house smelled like sugar and carpet cleaner. Confetti speckled the entryway like cheerful sabotage. A table overflowed with wrapped presents, each ribbon a bright little promise. In the distance, a clownish balloon man—one of those party contractors who always seemed to wear too much eyeliner—was talking to children. Molly and Bill moved toward the presents, stepping carefully around a pile of gift bags that had “FRAGILE” printed on them in a font that felt judgmental. Bill leaned toward Molly. “Which one’s the big one?” Molly scanned the pile. “Big one is always the most suspicious. Like the last cookie on a plate.” Bill reached for a large, shimmering box shaped like a robot. It had googly eyes. Molly slapped his wrist without much force, like a librarian correcting a sneeze. “Robot box has eyes. That means it’s a toy that might talk. Talking toys lead to questions.” Bill grumbled. “What if the questions are about how cool our burglary is?” “They won’t be,” Molly said. “They’ll be about where their toy went, and those questions will be directed at the police.” Bill swallowed. “Right. Less cool. More quiet.” He grabbed a medium box labeled “FOR AGE 6+” and held it up. “This one looks safe.” Molly examined the tape. “Safe-ish. But check for… squeaks.” Bill shook it gently. The box responded with the tiniest, pathetic squeak, like it was begging to be adopted. Bill’s face fell. “I think it’s haunted.” “It’s not haunted,” Molly said. “It’s a toy that squeaks. We’re professionals. We can steal squeaky things.” Bill nodded and began transferring the box into their tote bag. “Professional squeak theft.” Behind them, the party music hit a more dramatic chord. The clown voice boomed, “Okay, kids! Time for the scavenger hunt!” Molly stiffened. “Scavenger hunt means staff members will start walking around.” Bill swallowed again. “We’re currently standing in the gift zone like… like— “—like two raccoons in formal attire,” Molly finished. She grabbed the tote handle and dragged Bill toward the hallway. As they moved, Molly glanced back at the presents, now noticeably shorter in a way that would absolutely be noticed by someone with a calendar and a clipboard. The doorbell rang somewhere outside, and Bill flinched so hard his sunglasses slipped down his nose. Molly leaned in, voice urgent and low. “New rule: no squeaking, no talking, and absolutely no balloon tricks.” Bill tightened his grip on the tote. “I’m not doing balloons.” Molly gave him a look. “You already brought the kit.” Bill’s eyes widened. “That’s for emergencies.” Molly snorted. “Emergency is already happening. We’re stealing Christmas in a house full of glitter.” Bill grinned despite himself. “Then we’re about to steal the glitter too.” Molly shoved him toward the kitchen window. “If you drop anything, I’m blaming you.” “If you drop anything,” Bill corrected, “the police will blame gravity.” They slipped out into the backyard together, silent for exactly one second before Bill whispered, “Do you think the gifts know we’re leaving?” Molly stared into the party, where laughter rose and fell like a wave made of sugar. “Bill,” she said, “nothing that wrapped in ribbon can have feelings.” A beat passed. Then a distant child’s voice shouted, “Wait—someone stole the robot!” Bill’s shoulders slumped. “See? Feelings.” Molly tightened the strap on the tote and hurried toward the fence. “Move faster. We’re about to outrun a robot fan club.”