Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09KWP0XAVFS9GSGDFAPR6E

Molly crouched behind a hydrangea bush like it had personally wronged her. Across the street, a two-story house glowed with novelty lights shaped like letters. Someone had installed a fog machine, which felt excessive for a party themed around, apparently, dinosaurs that could also do impressions. Bill adjusted the tiny earpiece he’d stolen from a museum gift shop. “Tell me again why we’re not just breaking in at midnight like professionals.” Molly peered at the front door, where a velvet curtain of twinkling strands trembled in the breeze. “Because the children are awake until cake o’clock, and I refuse to wait in the car like a sad raccoon.” Bill lifted a bag marked “BALLOON ACCESSORIES” that had definitely not been purchased for a balloon business. “I’m dressed as a balloon delivery person.” “You’re dressed as a balloon delivery person,” Molly corrected. “There’s a difference. You’re also wearing clown shoes.” “They were on sale.” Molly pulled a roll of duct tape from her coat and looked offended at the world. “The sale ended yesterday.” Bill grinned and pointed at her own outfit: a fake mustache, a party hat, and a hoodie that said TOBY’S AWESOME ADVENTURES in cheerful bubble letters. “And you’re dressed like—” “—the special guest,” Molly said, snapping the mustache into place. “Toby’s cousin. Probably. I haven’t met the cousin.” Bill stared at the hoodie. “That’s… extremely specific.” “It’s strategic,” Molly replied. “If we look like we belong, nobody will question the fact that we’re stealing 37 presents.” Bill leaned closer, voice dropping. “Thirty-seven?” “Inventory says 37. Plus whatever comes out of that ‘surprise bundle’ box.” Molly tapped her earpiece. “I saw it through the window. It had a lid. Lids mean secrets.” Bill’s eyes widened. “We’re stealing secrets from children?” Molly sighed. “Bill, we’re stealing wrapped joy. It’s not like we’re taking their homework. Also, kids are chaos. We move fast, we grab the presents, we leave. No moral debates.” Bill pressed a hand to his chest. “My moral compass is on low battery.” “Then don’t charge it,” Molly said. She unspooled a thin strip of reflective tape and stuck it along the walkway. “Follow my lead. We go in through the side gate, across the patio, and into the living room where they display the treasure.” Bill nodded, then frowned. “What about the dog?” Molly frowned back. “There’s a dog.” Bill pointed with the intensity of a man spotting a landmine. “The dog’s sitting guard.” The window glass reflected a chocolate-brown beagle with an expression that suggested it had already read the police report. It wagged once, then stared. Molly took a slow breath. “Okay. We negotiate.” Bill blinked. “We’re going to negotiate with a dog?” “Absolutely,” Molly said, reaching into her pocket. She produced a small bag of treats she’d “borrowed” from a pharmacy counter. “Dogs love trade. And this dog is probably hungry. Everyone loves hunger. Especially dogs.” Bill crouched beside her and whispered, “If it bites me, I’m haunting you.” “It’s fine,” Molly said, offering the treat through the gate’s gap. “It won’t bite. It has a birthday hat.” The beagle wore a tiny blue paper hat, crooked and triumphant, as if it had earned the right to be dramatic. It sniffed the treat bag, sneezed once, and then—miracle of miracles—accepted the treat with the patience of a saint. Bill exhaled. “You’re a dog whisperer.” “I’m a dog collaborator,” Molly corrected. “Now, act casual. We are invisible.” Bill stood and—immediately—his clown shoes squeaked. The beagle lifted its head, ears twitching like radar dishes. Bill froze. “Did you… hear that?” Molly hissed, “Shh. You’re not squeaking. The world is squeaking.” They slid across the patio, careful and practiced in the way that only panicked burglars can be. Inside, the living room was a paper cathedral: wrapping paper crinkled underfoot like tiny, nervous applause. A stack of gifts sat beneath a banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEXI, as if the letters were daring them to touch anything. Bill glanced at the presents and whispered, “What if we accidentally steal the wrong one?” Molly pulled on a pair of black gloves with the reverence of a surgeon. “Then we steal the right one faster.” Bill’s eyes went wide again. “That’s not a plan, that’s—” “It’s both,” Molly said. “On three, we grab everything within arm’s reach. No heroics. No speeches. No humming that creepy theme song you keep humming.” “I don’t hum a theme song,” Bill protested. Molly leaned in. “You hummed ‘Jingle Bells’ for twenty minutes yesterday. In a parking lot. For no reason.” Bill swallowed. “It was cold.” “Ready?” Molly asked. Bill nodded slowly, like a man preparing to defuse a bomb made of glitter. “Ready.” “One… two… three.” They lunged toward the gifts. The beagle barked once from the doorway—sharp, warning, and somehow unimpressed. Simultaneously, a child’s voice floated from down the hall, sweet and sleepy. “Mom?” Molly and Bill both froze mid-lift, wrapping paper between their fingers like fragile evidence. Bill whispered, “We got caught by bedtime.” Molly whispered back, dead serious, “Then we steal quietly.” From the hallway, footsteps approached. Molly clapped a hand over Bill’s mouth, then whispered, “Smile like you’re here for the cake.” Bill tried to smile. His face looked like it had been mugged by nerves. “Okay.” Molly leaned toward the stack, grabbed the largest present, and whispered, “Please be Lego.” The child’s door creaked open. “Who’s there?”