Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09Z2KVN4WJJNVHBVEY3P27

Bill revved the engine of the getaway car—well, it was just an old station wagon Bill bought at a police auction for "under $2,000." "You're sure about this invite?" he asked, squinting at the homemade flyer Molly held under the dashboard light. Molly adjusted her fake glasses. "Positive. Jenny's eight-year-old's party. Parents rent the community hall, but according to Mrs. Henderson's Facebook stalking, the presents go in the side room because of little Kevin’s 'allergy to balloons.'" Bill snorted. "Allergy to balloons. That kid's probably eaten more cake than I have dates." Molly folded the flyer. "Exactly. Room's probably packed with toys we could sell for mad cash at the pawn shop." Bill drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Right. So we go in, we grab the presents, we go out. Classic." Molly shook her head. "Classic is why we're not doing this at 3 a.m. at Tiffany's. We need a cover. Something believable." Bill grinned. "How about this—I dress as Santa Claus." Molly's laughter was sharp. "You're what? Three inches taller than Kris Kringle, and you haven't shaved in a week." Bill tugged at his beard hat. "Street cred, Molly. Kids trust a jolly old elf, especially one who hands out candy canes instead of coal." Molly sighed. "And what's my role? Head elf with a drinking problem?" Bill ignored the jab. "No, no. You're the mom of the birthday kid. You 'forgot' to RSVP, but you brought a casserole the size of a satellite dish." Molly rubbed her temples. "I look like a soccer mom, not a criminal mastermind." Bill leaned back. "You look like someone who baked cookies so good the neighbors will vouch for your character with their dying breath." Molly exhaled through her nose. "This is the dumbest plan we’ve ever cooked up." Bill held up a finger. "But the simplest. Think about it—we walk in, we drop off this 'amazing' casserole—" "—which is just store-bought lasagna," Molly interrupted. "—reheat it in the kitchen, then casually stroll into the gift room when no one's looking. Presents magically become ours." Molly stared out the window. "And when we leave, we're carrying a duffel bag full of dolls and action figures. What, are we gonna tell the cops it's for our imaginary grandchildren?" Bill waved a hand. "We say we're taking it to charity. We're heroes for redistributing joy." Molly turned back to him. "You realize charity shops aren't open at 6 p.m. on a Saturday?" Bill rubbed his chin. "Then we say it's for the church bake sale tomorrow. People never question church stuff." Molly groaned. "We're stealing from children, Bill. Not a jewelry store." Bill's smile faded. "Look, the hall's on Maplewood Drive, right? At five-thirty. The cake comes out at six. We've got maybe an hour window before parents start heading home with sugar comas." Molly bit her lip. "Fine. But if one kid cries because their My Little Pony is missing, I'm throwing you under the bus." Bill clapped his hands. "Perfect. We'll park two streets over, walk in, drop off the 'casserole'—" "—lasagna—" "—lasagna, then mingle for fifteen minutes. Then boom, gift room. Easy money." Molly stared at him. "You know we’re going to hell for this, right?" Bill adjusted his Santa hat. "Worth it for twenty bucks' worth of Transformers."