Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08XJNJ2PQ0K5HC50X5WDGT

Molly crouched behind the potted palm in the entryway, studying the glittering chaos of the children’s party like it was a high-security museum and not a room that smelled faintly of frosting and bubble juice. Bill hovered beside her, clutching a roll of duct tape and a laminated “ULTIMATE HEIST CHECKLIST” he’d printed in Comic Sans. “This is ridiculous,” Molly whispered, peering through the doorway at the balloon arch. “It’s a children’s party. There will be, like, glitter fog and small crying noises.” “That’s why we go now,” Bill whispered back. “Small crying noises mean the parents are distracted. Also, I brought earplugs.” “You brought earplugs to steal presents from children.” “Yes,” Bill said. “They’re noise-canceling. Like the ones spies wear.” Molly pressed her finger to the side of her nose. “You sound like you’ve watched too many movies.” “I’ve watched a lot of movies,” Bill admitted. “I’m emotionally prepared for disappointment, tragedy, and mild criminal misdemeanors.” “Focus. We need to steal all the presents.” Molly pointed at the pile near the cake table. Wrapping paper peeked out like shy ghosts. “We take the big ones first, then the small ones. No gifts left behind.” Bill grinned and held up a pair of tiny telescoping arms. “I’m calling these the Helping Hands. They’re basically stolen from a warehouse display robot.” Molly squinted. “Those are a baby monitor arm and some coat hangers.” Bill shrugged. “Aesthetic.” A host of squeals burst from the hallway—children laughing at something offscreen. Molly flinched. Bill didn’t. “Act natural,” Molly murmured. “We are invisible. Like… holiday ninjas.” “Holiday ninjas,” Bill repeated, as if tasting the phrase. “Perfect. I have a ninja mask.” He pulled out a mask that was clearly a superhero mask repurposed with black tape, complete with a plastic jawline that made him look like a startled goldfish superhero. Molly stared at it. “Bill.” “What?” “That mask is on sideways.” “It’s an artisanal fit,” Bill said, tugging it into place until the tape puckered his cheeks into a grin that was both menacing and undeniably smug. Molly checked the strap on her backpack. “Okay. When I give the signal, you breach the gift pile—” “Breach,” Bill echoed. “Right. Like a dignified battering ram.” “Not battering. We do this quietly.” Bill nodded solemnly. “I will whisper aggressively.” Molly sighed and leaned closer. “Rule one: no touching the decorations. Rule two: do not step on the Lego minefield.” “There’s always a Lego minefield,” Bill said. “It’s the natural law of childhood.” “Rule three: we can’t get caught.” Bill’s eyes flicked to the corner where a tall stack of thank-you cards sat beside a bowl of candy. “Rule three is ambitious.” “Just—” Molly hissed. “Just listen.” Bill raised a finger. “I am listening. I’m listening so hard I can hear your plans becoming regret.” Molly smiled despite herself. “Good. Because regret is temporary. Presents are forever.” Bill’s grin widened. “Forever presents. Like cursed heirlooms.” Molly adjusted her gloves. “We grab everything labeled ‘From Santa’ first.” “Santa gifts?” Bill asked, delighted. “That’s the good stuff.” Molly nodded. “Then we take the ones with the bows. Ribbon ones are heavier. Heavier means—” “More loot,” Bill finished. “I know. I’m good at math. I steal from math.” Molly gestured toward the doorway. “On three.” Bill held up his checklist again. “One, two—” “Bill,” Molly warned, “no checklist during operation.” “It helps me feel safe,” Bill said, then lowered the sheet. “Okay. Two. I’m pretending I don’t need it.” Molly breathed in, tasting frosting and confidence. “Three.” Bill lunged forward like a careful comet, silently commandeering the corner of the gift pile with his Helping Hands. Molly followed, slipping presents into her backpack with theatrical tenderness, as if cradling baby elephants made of wrapping paper. “Please,” Molly whispered. “Focus on stealth.” “I am stealth,” Bill whispered back, even as a small bell keychain slid out from one gift and jingled faintly like an alarm made of tiny doom. Molly froze, eyes wide. “Bill.” Bill froze harder. “It’s fine.” “It jingled.” “Jingle is like wind,” Bill said. “Wind is always there. No one notices wind.” A parent’s laugh floated from another room. Molly and Bill held their breaths together, shoulder to shoulder. Then the bell quieted, and a child ran past, trailing squeals and confetti. Molly exhaled. “See?” Bill whispered. “Wind.” Molly peered into her backpack through the zipper crack, watching bows and tissue paper shift like a sleeping dragon. “We’re getting there.” Bill’s voice warmed with excitement. “Soon you’ll be the richest lady in this neighborhood, and I’ll be the—” “Do not say it,” Molly said. Bill paused. “The most lovable criminal?” Molly squeezed the last present tighter. “We are not lovable. We are efficient.” Bill nodded. “Efficiently lovable.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Bill.” Bill lifted both hands in surrender. “Fine. Efficient. Now—quick—before the cake is served and everyone turns into a screaming sugar-siren.” Molly glanced at the doorway, then at the remaining gifts. “Move, holiday ninja.” Bill sprang forward, trying to look silent while his taped-together mask made a subtle squeak. Molly grabbed another present and whispered, “If you squeak again, I’m leaving you with the arts and crafts supplies.” Bill gasped dramatically. “I would never betray you.” “You’re literally betraying children’s Christmas.” “That’s different,” Bill said. “That’s stealing with purpose.” Molly snorted, stuffing the gift deep into the backpack. “Purpose achieved. Let’s go before the wind notices us.”