Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09XZXBGMK01ZFRKXD17511

Molly slid behind a hedge like a seasoned shadow, except her hoodie still said “WILD THINGS” in glitter letters. Bill, already crouched by the front steps, looked up with the expression of a man trying to remember where he left his confidence. “Okay,” Bill whispered, “we’re in. No heroic speeches, no sudden reveals, and for the love of—why is there a kazoo on the welcome mat?” “It’s a decoy,” Molly murmured. “For squirrels. Or whatever the neighborhood squirrels are into.” Bill peered through the porch rail. Inside, a chorus of children shrieked with joy and what sounded like a DJ playing a song whose entire purpose was to make adults sweat. Past the window, colorful streamers fluttered like nervous flags. Molly adjusted the tiny earpiece she’d borrowed from a neighbor’s forgotten walkie-talkie collection. “Look. Present city. Wrapping paper mountains. Gift bags with bows. It’s like the universe is begging us to be terrible.” Bill swallowed. “Terrible is our brand. But I’d prefer not to be terrible in front of a child’s birthday cake. Cakes are… emotionally sharp.” Molly gave him a look. “You’re right. We’ll do it fast. Efficient. Like professional… nightmare librarians.” Bill nodded. “Yes. We’ll catalog and remove the presents. With dignity.” A new sound drifted from inside: someone shouted, “Time for games!” followed by enthusiastic clapping and the distinct thump of a pinata somewhere off-screen. Bill leaned closer to Molly. “Speaking of games, are we sure this is the right house? I found a flyer that said ‘Captain Crayon’s Fantastic Party,’ and I assumed it was metaphorical.” “It’s always metaphorical until you steal a dinosaur toy,” Molly said. “Now hush. There’s movement.” The front door opened. A smiling man in a superhero apron stepped onto the porch carrying a stack of plates. He hummed to himself, blissfully unaware that two burglars were currently practicing invisibility by pretending to be ornamental mulch. Bill’s eyes widened. “He’s… friendly.” “Friendly people are the worst,” Molly whispered. “They don’t even lock their hearts. They just leave bowls of punch on the coffee table like we won’t notice.” The man set the plates down, then reached for a decorative bucket. He pulled out a roll of tape, slapped it into place, and taped up a “PRESENTS HERE” sign that was so bright it could signal satellites. Bill stared. “That sign is a dare.” Molly smiled without showing teeth. “It’s also a map.” The door swung wider. Molly could see the living room now: gifts stacked in towering pyramids, each one labeled with a name that sounded like a tiny dragon trying to breathe confetti. There were probably at least thirty presents, depending on what counted as “presents” for people who gave their kids scented markers shaped like unicorns. Bill let out a shaky breath. “We can’t take all of them.” Molly blinked. “Bill. We can take all of them. That’s the assignment. That’s the dream. That’s the—” A child burst into view holding a balloon animal. “Is that a real spider?” the kid asked, staring directly at Bill, who had accidentally made eye contact with a decorative porch spider sticker. Bill froze so hard his knees squeaked. “Uh… yes.” The kid gasped. “Cool! Do you have spiders for the game too?” Molly shot Bill a look that could slice bread. “No,” she said, brightly, in a voice that implied she did not know how to lie. “But we have… balloons.” Bill panicked. “Yeah! Spiders are just balloon shapes. In our hearts.” The kid giggled and turned away, convinced by the cosmic logic of thieves. The superhero apron man clapped his hands. “Alright, everyone! If you hear your name, you come get a prize!” Molly’s earpiece crackled. Probably not important. Probably the sound of fate sharpening its knife. Bill leaned in. “Okay, new plan. We steal the presents while they’re distracted. Minimal chaos.” Molly nodded. “Chaos is our default setting, but we can try to dial it to ‘mildly embarrassing.’” Bill glanced at the pile again. “How do we carry all this? I’m not strong enough to be a Christmas Sherpa.” Molly lifted her bag slightly. “We’re not carrying. We’re… persuading the presents to relocate.” Bill squinted. “That’s not a thing.” “It is when you’re committed,” Molly whispered. “Now—on three. One… two… when the game starts, we move like professionals.” Bill swallowed. “You mean like… ninjas?” Molly shushed him. “Like toddlers on espresso. Go.” Inside, the host shouted, “It’s time for the treasure hunt!” Confetti cannons sounded, and the floor became a bright blur of feet and laughter. Molly and Bill darted forward together, immediately snagging their sleeves on a decorative banner that read “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MAX!” Both of them paused in unison as the banner tore free and snapped back like a catapult. Bill hissed, “We just caused a confetti incident.” Molly yanked harder, face full of determination. “We didn’t cause it. It was emotionally triggered.” They both lurched toward the gift pile anyway, laughing because the alternative was admitting they might be terrible at this. Bill stared at a wrapped box the size of a small television. “That one says ‘FRAGILE.’ Should we—” Molly cut him off. “We’re professionals. We respect fragile things. Like egos.” Then, with a sudden, synchronized grab, they began to haul presents off the stack, blissfully unaware that Max was just about to shout, “Look, the treasure is coming to us!”