Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08YSGD96PC1G8ED44VXGRK

Molly crouched behind a potted palm, peering through a crack in the curtains. “Bill, tell me again why we’re doing this,” she whispered, adjusting the black ski mask she swore made her look “mysterious” instead of “wrongly dressed for a library.” Bill sat on the windowsill like a disgruntled gargoyle, tapping a small earpiece. “Because the children's party is a buffet of unclaimed joy,” he said. “And also because the gift table is basically a museum dedicated to shiny breakable objects.” Molly narrowed her eyes. “They’re not breakable. They’re—” She stopped, realizing she didn’t have a backup word. “They’re… fragile optimism.” “Exactly,” Bill said. “We steal the presents, and their optimism becomes an intense, targeted sense of betrayal.” Molly exhaled through her nose. “That’s a sentence you shouldn’t be proud of.” Bill leaned closer. “I’m not proud. I’m focused. Also, I brought frosting.” Molly blinked. “Frosting?” Bill nodded solemnly, like he’d just revealed a sacred relic. “To test the security system.” “We don’t have a security system,” Molly said. “We have a toddler’s birthday cake and probably a piñata with less planning than my homework assignments.” Bill held up the frosting-covered spoon. “Security is always testing you. The question is whether you’re testing back.” Molly stared at the spoon as though it might bite her. “How exactly does frosting help?” Bill grinned. “If there’s a guard, it’ll lick it. If there’s no guard, we still get frosting. Win-win.” Molly pushed the spoon away like it had insulted her mother. “You’re not licking my heist supplies.” “It’s not yours,” Bill said. “It’s everyone’s frosting.” Molly’s gaze flicked to the front door. “Okay, so plan. We slip in, grab the presents, and—” “And leave before someone asks for ‘help opening’ a gift,” Bill finished. “Because nothing ruins a clean getaway like the phrase, ‘But that one’s for me!’” Molly nodded, then pointed at his duffel bag. “What’s with the bag?” Bill unzipped it carefully, revealing an absurd collection of items: gift wrap ribbons, a roll of tape, and what looked like a tiny handheld vacuum. “Disguise tools,” he said. “Ribbons to look festive, tape to reattach suspicion to other people, and the vacuum for… crumbs of alibis.” Molly stared longer this time. “You vacuum crumbs of alibis?” Bill shrugged. “If you don’t clean your story, someone will trip over it later.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “Your brain is a terrible neighborhood.” Bill clapped his hands softly. “All right. Step one: timing. They’ll be busy with the clapping song.” Molly listened, and faint muffled laughter leaked through the walls. “How do you know?” “Because every children's party has the same soundtrack,” Bill said. “It’s scientifically proven. It’s the sound of adults pretending not to be lost.” Molly gave him a look. “You have science for this?” “Of course,” Bill said. “I used to babysit. Terrible job. Great data.” Molly leaned forward. “Step two: access.” Bill lifted a small device. “Keycard.” Molly’s eyes widened. “That’s a—” “A keycard,” Bill said, defensive. “Borrowed. From a hotel. It had ‘Bananas’ listed under room service, which felt trustworthy.” Molly sighed. “Fine. Step three: stealing.” Bill’s smile grew. “We take every present.” Molly hesitated. “Every single one?” Bill nodded. “They’ll be so excited, and then—poof—only the wrapping paper will remain like a tragic ghost story.” Molly’s voice lowered. “Bill, that’s evil.” Bill blinked, offended. “It’s not evil. It’s… comedic inconvenience.” Molly glanced toward the living room window. “And who exactly will be the brunt of that inconvenience?” Bill lifted a shoulder. “Parents. Also children. But children recover. They grow. They learn. Eventually they understand the true meaning of monetary value.” Molly considered this, then cracked a smile despite herself. “Okay. But if we see a unicorn-themed coloring book, I want it.” Bill raised his finger. “You can have the unicorn coloring book.” Molly frowned. “But you said we take every present.” “We will,” Bill said. “I’m just bargaining with fate.” A distant cheer rose, then fell—someone beginning the birthday song. Molly straightened, checking her gear. “On my mark,” she whispered. Bill nodded. “On your mark, we become legends.” Molly looked at him. “On my mark, we become arrested.” Bill adjusted his mask. “Same outfit, different ending.” Molly swallowed a laugh and then, softly, “Bill?” “Yeah?” “If you lick the frosting,” she said, “I will personally return you to the rental store.” Bill paused, thoughtful. “I won’t lick it.” Molly waited. “You’ll… what?” Bill smiled. “I’ll… share it with the house.”