Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09V67HVBRYQY6TF61RDVM4

Molly crouched behind a hedge so she could peer at the backyard without being seen, like a seasoned professional and also like a person who had definitely watched too many movies. Bill stood beside her with a duffel bag that looked heavy enough to contain either stolen goods or a small regret. “Okay,” Bill whispered, wringing his gloved hands. “We enter, we grab the presents, we leave. Simple.” Molly lifted a hand and adjusted her black beret, which made no sense because there were no wind conditions in a suburb. “Simple is what people say right before they hit a whoopee cushion and reveal themselves to the entire neighborhood.” Bill nodded gravely. “That won’t happen. I have a plan.” Molly glanced at his plan, which was just a folded napkin with doodles of candy canes and arrows. “Is that… a schematic?” “It’s conceptual,” Bill said. “The important part is the arrows. Arrows mean order. Order means success.” Molly pressed her cheek against the hedge leaves, inhaling the scent of grass and barbecue smoke. Somewhere beyond, someone’s laughter floated over a fence. A balloon animal—if balloons could be called animals—bobbed near the patio like it was guarding the perimeter. “Do you hear that?” Molly asked. Bill listened like a wolf trained in security systems. “That’s… joy.” Molly smirked. “Exactly. We are about to steal joy.” Bill’s eyes widened. “That’s dark.” “Not dark,” Molly corrected. “Joy is just packaging for valuables.” They watched as a gaggle of kids ran past the sliding door, their shoes slapping the tile like tiny marching drums. On the table near the window sat a pile of gifts: wrapped boxes, glossy bags with cartoon animals, and one suspiciously large package shaped like a bicycle. “Let’s just take everything,” Bill said. “We’ll leave the thank-you notes. Those are poison.” Molly gave him a look. “If we take all the presents, the birthday kid will cry.” Bill’s mouth formed an offended O. “People say that like it’s a downside.” Molly leaned closer, voice tightening with strategy. “We take all the presents, but we do it efficiently. We’re not monsters. We’re… mildly enthusiastic thieves with excellent timing.” Bill patted his duffel bag. “I also have backup.” Molly followed his gaze to a small rolling cooler. It was labeled in thick marker: DRINKS FOR THE ADULTS. The handwriting was Bill’s. “Why is it labeled?” Molly asked. Bill smiled. “Because if anyone challenges us, we can say we’re on a beverage run.” Molly stared at him. “That’s your backup plan. ‘Hi, we’re delivering drinks we definitely didn’t bring.’” Bill shrugged. “Works in court. Probably.” Molly sighed, then produced two thin LED strips from her pocket. She clicked them on, and a faint green glow painted the hedges like a low-budget sci-fi movie. “Listen. The door is open because this is a children’s party and adults are exhausted. We move quietly, grab gifts with the fastest kind of hands—” “Your hands?” Bill asked. “My hands are fast when I stop talking,” Molly said. She aimed one LED strip at the path from fence to patio. “You do not touch anything with your bare optimism. It alerts the universe.” Bill saluted, then whispered, “Yes, Captain Anxiety.” Molly crouched and nodded toward the sliding door. “On my count. Three. Two—” At the exact moment she said “one,” a voice inside called, “Mom! Can you come help me with the decorations?” Bill froze. “Uh-oh.” Molly froze harder. “Which mom?” Bill blinked. “The one who can hear us from a different room.” From inside, footsteps approached—soft, fast, and coming closer. A burst of light cut across the patio, and the sliding door creaked as someone adjusted it from within. Bill leaned toward Molly, panic whispering out of him in a thin stream. “We can’t be here if the mom comes out.” “We can’t be here if she doesn’t,” Molly whispered back. “So either way, we should move.” Bill’s eyes darted around. “But our bags—” Molly grabbed the duffel strap, swung it over her shoulder, and hissed, “We become bags. Bags move.” The door opened a few inches. A woman’s face appeared, smiling pleasantly at the empty patio like she expected joy to deliver itself. “Hello?” she called. Bill opened his mouth. Molly slapped a hand over his lips with the authority of a lifeguard. She raised her other hand, holding an invisible clipboard in the posture of someone totally trained for this. “Hi,” Molly said, too calm for the situation. “We’re… beverage support.” The woman blinked. “Beverage support?” Bill choked out, “For the adults.” Molly flashed a grin that could sell insurance to a raccoon. “We brought the drinks for the adults. The cooler is right—” Bill’s cooler rolled forward an inch with a suspicious little scrape. The woman’s smile faltered. “Why is it labeled?” Bill coughed. “Communication.” Molly tightened her grip on the duffel bag. “We’re extremely communicative.” The woman stared for one long second, then laughed awkwardly. “Okay. Great. The kids are waiting for… whatever it is you’re doing.” Molly nodded quickly. “Perfect. We’ll just—” “Wait,” the woman said, stepping back into the room. “Are you… from the party planning company?” Bill whispered, “We’re from—uh—” Molly answered instantly, “We’re from the neighborhood! We do a lot of… community work.” The woman waved a hand, already distracted by laughter and music. “Well, hurry then. The presents are starting to pile up.” Molly exhaled and grabbed Bill’s sleeve. “Move. Now. Before she remembers we’re strangers.” They slipped inside like two mischievous shadows with felony plans, gliding past balloons and smiling faces. On the table, the bicycle-shaped package looked offended by being left out. Bill swallowed. “Molly?” Molly pointed at the pile, eyes bright. “You take the big stuff. I’ll do the shiny stuff.” Bill grinned. “Together we steal like—” “Don’t finish that sentence,” Molly muttered, then grabbed the nearest gift with the reverence of a librarian. “On three.” They worked fast, comedic and careful—like thieves trying to be quiet while their hands were clearly proud of themselves.