Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09DH2M0J9ED82SK65PG2H9

Molly crouched behind the potted palm near the foyer, flattening the tiny “security guard” patch on her hoodie as if it might impress the universe. Across the living room, streamers floated like lazy sharks over a sea of wrapping paper. A DJ playlist thumped with cheerful abandon, accompanied by the shriek of a birthday kid attempting a microphone voice. Bill slid in beside her, wearing a fake mustache that looked like it had been designed by a committee of squirrels. He held a clipboard that said in glitter letters: CONGRATS ON YOUR NEW SKILLZ! Underneath, in smaller print, it read: AUTHORIZED PARENT. “Your clipboard is upside down,” Molly whispered. Bill leaned closer. “It’s backwards on purpose. Like reverse camouflage. I’m basically Batman’s intern.” Molly squinted at the front door where a “PLEASE REMOVE SHOES” mat sat like an accusation. “We’re breaking in through the sliding patio. If Mrs. Turnip-Head calls it ‘tech support’ again, I’m walking out.” “Relax,” Bill said, “children only fear two things: loud noises and being out of juice. We can handle that.” Molly pulled a roll of painter’s tape from her pocket and pressed it to the ground, creating a careful trail toward the gift table. “That’s not confidence. That’s optimism wearing a fake mustache.” Bill snapped his fingers. “Speaking of confidence, I’ve got the perfect distraction.” He reached into his bag and produced a squeaky toy shaped like a tiny dinosaur. It chirped once, then again, like it had just witnessed a tax fraud. Molly stared. “That’s… a dinosaur for children.” “Yes,” Bill said. “And also, for adults who can’t resist pressing buttons. I’m going to set it near the pantry. Someone will investigate. Then we steal presents while everyone is busy being responsible.” Molly nodded slowly, as if approving a complicated recipe. “Fine. But remember, we’re not stealing the cake.” Bill blinked. “We weren’t invited to cake-related crimes.” She pointed toward the hallway. A stack of gifts sat beneath a banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BESTIE! The presents were tall, small, and suspiciously heavy for besties. There was even one wrapped in shiny paper shaped like rockets. Bill adjusted his mustache. “Targets identified. We grab everything that looks valuable, then we—” “Then we run,” Molly cut in. “Then we triumph,” Bill corrected, lowering his voice into a dramatic whisper. “I forgot the part where we triumph.” Molly rolled her eyes. “We’ll triumph after I verify the locks. Step on the tape only. No heroics.” Bill pointed to the kitchen doorway. “Heroics are my brand.” Molly pulled a slim lock pick kit from her sleeve and approached the sliding patio handle. The handle had a childproof latch that looked like it had been designed by a villain with a sense of humor. Bill hovered behind her, ready to look innocent. “You know, I read an article about latches. They’re like tiny emotional boundaries.” Molly flicked the latch with controlled precision. It clicked open, the sound somehow louder than the DJ. The beat stopped for half a second. Somewhere, a toddler gasped. Molly froze. “Did you hear that?” Bill listened, then smiled too hard. “That was the universe approving our professionalism.” A woman’s laugh drifted from the living room. “Oh, honey, don’t press—” Molly sprang into motion, tugging a duffel bag from under a chair. “Okay. It’s now or never.” Bill scooped gifts from the table with the efficiency of a man who had once organized a pantry for sport. “How many is ‘all the presents,’ exactly?” Molly stuffed a medium box into the bag. “All of them. Unless it’s something gross. Like kale. I swear to—” Bill lifted a rocket-shaped package. “It’s a rocket! With… educational stickers.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “If it’s educational, we steal it anyway. Teachers love chaos.” Bill cradled the rocket like a priceless artifact. “I can already feel the victory. Also, my arms are starting to feel like noodles.” From the hallway, the squeaky dinosaur toy let out a triumphant squeal. Molly grimaced. “Your distraction worked.” Bill’s smile widened. “I told you. Confident. Batman intern energy.” Molly grabbed the last gift, a lumpy one wrapped in silver paper. “All right. Bag secured.” Bill glanced toward the living room. “We have thirty seconds before someone checks the patio.” Molly closed the duffel zipper with a decisive tug. “Then we exit through the window like tasteful criminals.” Bill gestured wildly. “Tasteful is my middle name.” Molly grabbed his shoulder and guided him toward the patio. “If your middle name is ‘lies,’ I’m going to keep blaming you when the police show up.” Bill whispered as they slipped into the night air, “Relax, Molly. We’re not thieves. We’re… surprise curators.” Molly snorted. “Curators of regret.”