Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09P6WVXZKRAPTHZV3XVWQS

Molly flattened herself behind a potted fern like it had personally offended her. The living room beyond the glass doors was bright with decorations shaped like smiling planets, and the air smelled faintly of frosting and freshly murdered optimism. A cheerful banner read HAPPY GABBY’S FIFTH, which felt less like a greeting and more like a legal disclaimer. Bill hovered at her shoulder, holding a device that looked like a TV remote mated with a spoon. “Okay,” he whispered, “we’re here for the presents.” Molly peered at the tree, where gifts stacked like colorful fortresses. “We’re here for the presents,” she agreed, as if the phrasing were a contract neither of them had read. Bill raised his eyebrows. “You’re being weird.” “I’m being careful,” Molly said. “Children are unpredictable.” “They’re five,” Bill said. “Their biggest threat is sticky hands and asking questions like they’re detectives.” Molly leaned closer to the door. “We also need to consider that their parents have the kind of vigilance usually reserved for diamond smugglers.” Bill clicked his spoon-remote. A faint whir sounded, like a tiny robot clearing its throat. “I’ve already neutralized the motion sensor.” Molly stared at him. “Neutralized? In what way?” Bill pointed at the thermostat screen. It displayed a cheerful message: WELCOME! PLEASE ENJOY YOUR STAY! “The sensor thinks we’re… guests.” Molly’s lips twitched. “Guests. At a children’s party.” “It’s technically true,” Bill said. “We’re just guests with criminal intentions.” Molly adjusted her cap, the one with a brim suspiciously shaped like a disguise. “Criminal intentions are still intentions.” From somewhere down the hall came laughter—high and constant, like a sprinkler system for joy. A child’s voice sang, “Unwrap it! Unwrap it!” and immediately followed by the sound of a balloon popping, which felt like an omen designed by a committee. Bill froze. “We’re late.” Molly listened. “No, we’re exactly on time. The party schedule is probably—” A woman’s voice boomed, “Okay, everybody, no running during the treasure game!” Bill’s head snapped toward Molly. “Treasure game?” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “That’s their security system. We walk in too fast, they chase us with foam swords.” Bill held up two foam swords he’d apparently acquired already. “I prepared for that.” Molly blinked. “You prepared foam swords.” “I improvised,” Bill said. “Also, they were free in the craft aisle. Like temptation.” Molly exhaled through her nose. “Fine. Plan. We steal all the presents.” Bill nodded. “Yes. All of them.” Molly glanced at the tree again. “All of them is—” “Greedy,” Bill finished. “But efficient.” A shadow moved near the hallway. Footsteps. Adult footsteps, measured, confident. A door clicked open, and bright light spilled across the carpet like a spotlight auditioning someone for culpability. Molly and Bill ducked behind the fern’s last shred of dignity. Bill whispered, “That’s Mom Gabby’s mom. I can tell by the shoes.” Molly hissed, “You can tell by the shoes?” Bill nodded solemnly, like he had studied forensic footwear. “Velcro with purpose. She means business.” The woman’s voice floated back toward them. “Remember, we’re not opening gifts until after the magic show.” Molly’s stomach tightened. “Magic show. That’s another layer.” Bill pointed the spoon-remote toward the ceiling. “Or distraction.” Molly looked at him. “Are you planning to—” “Maybe,” Bill said. “Just slightly nudge the magic show timer to start five minutes early.” Molly stared. “You want to mess with a magician.” Bill shrugged. “Magicians are basically crime professionals with better lighting. It’s collaboration.” The footsteps retreated. Silence returned, thick and frosting-thick. Molly reached for a small roll of tape. “Okay. Step one: we get the gifts out.” Bill held up a duffel bag the size of a small dog. “Step two: we put the gifts in this.” Molly paused. “Can that bag actually hold—” “It can hold the weight of our dreams,” Bill said. Molly shot him a look. “Our dreams don’t have receipts.” Bill smiled. “No receipts if the gifts never make it to the wrapping paper.” Molly grabbed the nearest present, careful not to tear the ribbon. The paper was bright with cartoon dinosaurs. She whispered, “If there’s a dinosaur toy inside, it’s going to feel wrong.” Bill leaned close. “Wrong is subjective. Also, you’ll be thrilled when you see the contents. I can sense—” Molly cut him off. “You can sense what?” Bill tapped his temple. “The sweet, tender chaos of loot.” Molly tightened her grip and started moving, bag unzipping as quietly as possible for someone whose greatest enemy was always gravity. “Remember,” she said, “no one notices two adults carrying presents into the—” A child’s giggle erupted nearby. Molly froze. Bill froze. Even the fern looked like it had opinions. A small hand slapped the glass door with delight. “Are you here for the party?” Molly and Bill turned slowly, as if rotating toward judgment could be done without moving their bodies too much. Bill plastered on a smile. “Hello! Yes. We’re… surprise helpers.” The child’s face scrunched. “Surprise helpers help surprise?” Molly lowered her voice to something warm and criminally soothing. “Exactly.” The child tilted their head, examining their foam swords like they were auditioning for the job of trusted adult. “Can you help unwrap my present?” Bill blinked. “Unwrap?” Molly glanced at the tree, at the wrapped gifts, at the impossible innocence staring back. Her mouth opened, then closed, as if deciding between ethics and efficiency. Bill leaned in, whispering, “We could unwrap one.” Molly whispered back, “We’re stealing all of them.” Bill whispered, “All of them except one. That’s… a compromise.” The child beamed. “I’ll tell everyone you can be good guys.” Molly’s eyes widened. “Good guys.” Bill nodded eagerly. “Good guys who happen to take presents.” Molly stared at him like he’d just turned theft into a community program. Behind them, the magic show began with a bright flash and a thunderous “TA-DA!” that shook the room. The child squealed, “The magician!” Molly and Bill slid the duffel bag open wider, hands moving faster than guilt could catch up. Molly whispered, “We take everything.” Bill whispered, “And we return the unwrapped one with a bow.” Molly’s lips pressed together. “You don’t even know where it is.” Bill grinned. “That’s why it’s strategic.” They moved in sync, lifting gifts with careful clumsiness, while the party’s laughter drowned out every possible question. Molly reached for a package wrapped in gold paper and dinosaur stickers, and Bill’s spoon-remote chirped like it was proud of them. Somewhere in the chaos, the child’s giggle floated back—still cheerful, still trusting—and Molly couldn’t help thinking that this was either genius or the beginning of a very complicated apology.