Run: 2026-03-18-01KM092E1DWHFW34RJT19SKMZM

Molly crouched behind a potted palm and peered through the crack in the curtains like she was studying wildlife. Bill leaned in beside her, trying to look casual while his knee knocked the coffee table hard enough to make a mug inside the display cabinet tremble. “Shh,” Molly whispered, though she’d already whispered the same word twice. “If the mug squeaks, we’re dead.” Bill blinked. “Mugs squeak?” “Everything squeaks,” Molly said. “This is suburbia.” He unfolded a tiny pair of bolt cutters from his jacket like a magician producing a dove. The dove immediately sounded offended. “Do you ever stop with the dramatic entrances?” Molly asked. “I didn’t enter dramatically,” Bill said. “I emerged. Like a fog machine.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Fog machines don’t wear cargo pants, Bill.” Bill adjusted his belt, which was packed with tools in neat little rolls. “They might if they paid for premium service.” From inside the house, muffled voices floated down the hall. A cheerleading squeal. The rhythmic thump of party music. Somewhere, a child laughed as if they’d just invented it. “They’re early,” Bill said, checking the door. “We should go.” “We are going,” Molly said, patting the side pocket of her bag. “In a minute. After we do the important part.” “The important part is the breaking-in,” Bill said. “The important part is not scaring the parents,” Molly corrected. “Parents are like bears. Except with credit cards. Bears don’t ask you to sign things.” Bill shrugged. “I can sign. I once signed for a package I didn’t order.” Molly smirked. “That’s why we don’t leave fingerprints, billowing fog, or your signature.” Bill leaned closer. “Okay, so what’s the plan?” Molly took a deep breath, as if preparing to blow out candles. “We slip in, grab presents, and vanish. No heroics. No unnecessary property damage. Minimal squeaking. Maximum present yield.” Bill pulled out a pair of white gloves. “Minimal squeaking is my brand.” Molly raised a finger. “There’s also the matter of the disguise.” Bill’s eyes lit up. “I love disguises.” Molly opened her bag and produced two costumes: one was a floppy cardboard clown hat and the other was a foam sash that read BEST BROTHER. She held them out like offerings. Bill stared. “You brought gender-neutral party royalty?” “It’s disguise,” Molly said. “You’ll be Best Brother. I’ll be—” Molly paused, rummaged again, and produced a tiny plastic headset with a neon sticker that said PARTY ASSISTANT. Bill took it and made a face. “This says assistant. You’re the planner, Molly.” “I can multitask,” Molly said. “Also, kids love assistants. They think we’re here to help them win games where they throw soft objects at someone’s elbow.” Bill slipped on his sash. “Fine. I’m Best Brother. What do I do?” “Act like you belong,” Molly said. “Like you’re waiting for your sibling’s birthday moment.” Bill nodded solemnly. “I understand. I was born waiting.” “That’s… depressing,” Molly muttered. “Try to smile at the snacks. Smiling at snacks is a universal language.” Bill grinned. “Perfect. I do it naturally. My mouth rehearses.” Molly checked the lock on the patio door. “On three. You don’t rush. Rushing is how you get caught and also how you break things.” Bill placed a hand on the door. “I only break things on purpose.” “Good,” Molly said. “We’re breaking things on purpose. Three.” They moved together. Molly twisted the small tool with quiet precision. Bill held his breath so hard his cheeks trembled. The lock clicked like a polite apology. Inside, the air smelled faintly of sugar and new plastic tablecloths. Molly eased the door open the width of a secret. They slipped in. Immediately, a stream of colorful balloons bumped gently against Bill’s head, as if the house was greeting him with a concussion. He froze, then adjusted his hat and tried to look confident. Molly mouthed, Smile at the snacks. Bill whispered, “There are no snacks yet.” Molly leaned forward. “Not snacks, Bill. We haven’t reached snacks. We’re in the hallway. Like before snacks.” A child’s voice echoed from the living room. “Is someone here? I heard a squeak!” Bill flinched. “I didn’t squeak.” Molly pressed a finger to her lips and listened. Footsteps approached. A shadow passed along the doorway. Then the footsteps stopped, and a tiny giggle followed. “It’s probably the toys,” the voice said, dismissive as a judge. Molly exhaled. “Toys don’t talk like that.” Bill raised his eyebrows. “Maybe toys went to school.” Molly glanced at him. “Focus. We’re stealing presents, not gossiping.” Bill nodded, then pointed down the hall. “There’s the tree. The tree is decorated.” Molly’s eyes widened. “That’s not a tree, Bill. That’s a gift display.” Bill swallowed theatrically. “I’m going to steal a whole display.” Molly grabbed his sleeve and guided him forward. “You’re going to steal quickly and quietly. And if you hear the birthday song, you pretend you’re part of the entertainment.” Bill whispered, “What if I can’t pretend?” Molly looked at him as if considering whether bears could use credit cards. “Then you panic silently.” Bill steadied himself. “I’m good at silent panic. It’s like… regular panic, but with manners.” They crept past a stack of paper-wrapped boxes tied in glossy ribbons. Molly reached out, fingertips hovering over a large one marked TO ELLA. Bill whispered, “Should we check the names? Like… ethically?” Molly smirked. “We’re ethically stealing. No one said we had to read.” The lights in the ceiling flickered. Somewhere, a timer began to beep. Bill’s eyes widened. “Is that for cake?” Molly tilted her head. “It might be for the gift-opening machine.” Bill leaned closer to her, voice urgent but controlled. “Molly, I don’t want to open any gifts.” Molly’s expression stayed steady. “Then we won’t. We take them, we go, and we act like we were always invited to the party for adults.” Bill nodded. “Like contractors.” Molly pulled the first present free, careful with the ribbon. “Exactly.” As they lifted the box, a burst of laughter erupted from the living room again—louder this time, accompanied by the unmistakable thud of someone stomping a foot on a dance mat. Bill whispered, “If we’re caught, I’m blaming you.” Molly whispered back, “If we’re caught, I’m blaming gravity. Now carry.” Bill hefted the present with surprising grace for a man wearing a sash. “Yes, Party Assistant,” he said. Molly shot him a look. “Don’t call me that.” Bill smiled. “Party Assistant.” Molly hissed, “Bill.” Bill chuckled under his breath. “It’s hard not to be cheerful when I’m stealing joy.” Molly hurried down the hallway, the gift box tucked against her chest like stolen treasure in the shape of happiness. Behind them, the house hummed with birthday noise, unaware that two professionals were pilfering delight one ribbon at a time.