Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09MERJN3K95VAD6VX824C8

Molly crouched behind a potted palm in the entryway, her eyes tracking the living room like a hawk with excellent budgeting. The house smelled of sugared fruit and floor polish, the kind of scent that said someone had tried very hard to make joy feel like it had insurance. Bill waited beside her, half-hidden behind a coat rack, wearing a tool belt that looked suspiciously like a novelty costume from a hardware store. “Okay,” Bill whispered, adjusting the strap over his shoulder. “We are calm. We are quiet. We are stealthy.” Molly nodded without taking her eyes off the hallway. “Yes. And we are not, under any circumstances, going to touch the magical pony piñata.” Bill’s face did a little twitch. “The pony piñata is a distraction, not a target.” “It is absolutely a target,” Molly said, then paused. “But not by us.” Bill leaned in. “We have a plan.” “We always have a plan,” Molly replied. “Your plans are like goldfish crackers. They disappear immediately, and then everyone pretends they weren’t supposed to be there.” Bill opened his mouth, then shut it, as if the words had tripped over each other. “My plan is not the problem. Your plan is the problem.” “My plan is a masterpiece,” Molly said, and pulled a small notebook from her pocket. She flipped it open to a page titled PRESENTS: NUMBERS ONLY. “Step one: arrive. Step two: blend in with the environment.” Bill gestured at his outfit. He had strapped on an enormous fake mustache over his mask and wore what appeared to be a child-sized birthday superhero cape. “This,” he said, “is blending in.” Molly looked at him. “Bill, you look like a birthday party mascot that got evicted.” Bill straightened. “I’m intimidating.” “You’re adorable,” Molly corrected. “Adorable is intimidating,” Bill insisted. “Fine,” Molly said. “Step three: acquire the presents.” Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “We’re doing step three first?” “We’re always doing step three first,” Molly said. “The presents will not steal themselves.” Bill exhaled slowly. “I just want you to remember that it’s a children’s party.” Molly smiled with the gentle menace of someone who had once “borrowed” a decorative topiary. “Bill, children are tiny and full of snacks. No one is harmed. It’s like… holiday logistics.” Bill pointed toward the kitchen. “What about the parents?” Molly listened. Somewhere beyond the walls, laughter rose and fell like a balloon with commitment issues. A speaker crackled with a tinny version of a birthday song. The sound of plastic wrap being pulled free drifted through the vents. Molly whispered, “Parents are distracted by cupcakes and the illusion that time is unlimited.” Bill swallowed. “What about the adults’ guard—like the dog.” “There’s no dog,” Molly said. Bill leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “There’s always a dog.” Molly peered past the palm. “No dog. Just an air freshener that claims to be ‘Ocean Breeze.’” Bill relaxed. “Good. Because I’m not emotionally prepared to negotiate with a dog.” Molly tapped her notebook twice. “Step four: escape via the—” A squeal interrupted them. Not a scream. A delighted, squeaky sound, like someone had just discovered a balloon that could squeak back. Bill’s head snapped toward the sound. “What was that?” Molly listened. “Probably the party entertainer.” Bill whispered, “We should maybe wait until they’re done.” Molly grabbed the edge of her mask and tugged it more securely into place. “No waiting. Waiting is for people who have consciences. We have none.” Bill stared. “We have some. I think.” Molly slid a slim crowbar from her pocket with all the drama of a magician pulling a rabbit. “Step four: escape via the party-game supply closet.” Bill squinted. “That’s not a thing.” “It is in every house,” Molly said. “If there isn’t one, it becomes one.” Bill swallowed again. “Okay. But I’m wearing the cape.” “You’re wearing the cape,” Molly agreed. “But we’re using it as cover. If anyone asks, you’re—” Bill interrupted quickly. “I’m the Prince of Surprise.” Molly considered. “No. You’re the Delivery Wizard.” Bill nodded. “Perfect. Delivery Wizard makes sense.” A gust of warm laughter swept through the hall as more children arrived. Footsteps pattered past, light and quick, like the house had sprouted attention-deficit feet. Molly rose slowly, then crawled toward the doorway. Bill followed, his fake mustache bobbing like a tumbleweed with feelings. “Remember,” Bill whispered, close enough that Molly could smell peppermint on his breath, “we only take the gifts.” Molly grinned. “Yes. And only the wrapped ones. No peeking.” Bill nodded, then hesitated. “What about the ones that look… really cool.” Molly glanced at him. “Bill. Wrapped means untouched.” Bill’s voice went small. “Okay. Wrapped means untouched. Like… like a promise.” Molly stopped at the edge of the living room. Through the doorway, piles of presents formed a glittering mountain beneath a banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SPARKLES ARE FREE. The kids’ table was set with coloring books, and a balloon arch floated like it had been trained to hover. Molly whispered, “Now.” Bill drew in a breath. “Now?” Molly slipped through the doorway, quiet as a thought you didn’t want to admit. “Now, Delivery Wizard. Let’s steal every last present before anyone learns what ‘sharing’ feels like.” Bill swallowed, then nodded as if he were about to do something profoundly stupid and possibly hilarious. “All right,” he said. “But if we get caught—” Molly didn’t look back. “We won’t get caught.” Bill took one careful step forward, cape swishing. “Because we’re stealthy.” “Because,” Molly corrected, “we’re charming criminals.” Behind them, the party music brightened, and the children’s laughter swelled—cheerful, unaware, like a choir holding the world’s most innocent spotlight. Molly reached the present pile and lifted the first box with gloved hands. It was heavier than it looked, wrapped in paper patterned with tiny stars and a cheerful warning label: PLEASE DO NOT OPEN UNTIL SUNSET. Molly held it up, studying the label like a puzzle. “Perfect.” Bill leaned in, voice barely audible. “Perfect?” Molly smiled. “It says sunset.” Bill blinked. “It’s nighttime already.” Molly’s grin widened. “That’s what I call initiative.”