Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AAQZX8WT3F3CJYC3ZK2E6

Molly adjusted her tiny headlamp and leaned toward the frosting-scented window. “Tell me we’re not doing this,” she whispered. Bill held up a map he’d drawn on a napkin. “We’re doing this,” he whispered back, like the walls might tattle. Molly squinted at the napkin. “Your ‘map’ is a doodle of a cupcake with arrows.” Bill puffed out his chest. “It’s an architectural masterpiece. See? That’s the living room. That’s the couch where the toys are hiding. That’s… the spot where I’m definitely not planning to trip.” Molly glanced at her crowbar, which was shaped like a decorative spoon. “Your crowbar is a serving utensil.” Bill shrugged. “Stealing is an art. We’re serving crime.” Molly snorted and pulled a roll of wrapping paper from her bag like it was evidence. “We’re stealing all the presents from a children’s party.” Bill nodded solemnly. “Yes. All of them.” Molly paced one semicircle along the fence line. “That’s monstrous.” Bill patted his own coat pockets. “It’s efficient. Kids don’t even know what ‘inventory’ means.” Molly stopped. “Do you know what they do know?” Bill leaned in. “That their birthday is happening?” Molly pointed. “They know when someone is bad at sneaking. They have radar. Tiny radar.” Bill lifted a small plastic telescope. “I have counter-radar.” Molly squinted at it. “That’s a toy from a cereal box.” Bill grinned. “It still counts. Besides, their parents are distracted.” Molly tilted her head. “By what?” Bill raised a finger. “By the clown.” Molly blinked. “I don’t see a clown.” Bill smiled wider. “Exactly. Clowns are like ninjas, but with balloons and emotional support.” Molly swallowed. “Okay. Fine. How do we get in?” Bill tapped the napkin again. “We enter through the gift table.” Molly stared. “Through the gift table?” Bill nodded. “All gifts are stored in one big pile. We simply… become gifts.” Molly looked down at her outfit: black, tactical, and somehow also covered in sparkles. “We already look like presents.” Bill gestured at her. “You’re basically gift-colored.” Molly hissed. “I did not choose gift-colored. It just… happened.” Bill produced a roll of ribbon. “We’ll wrap ourselves. Softly. Quietly. Like a holiday burrito.” Molly lifted a hand. “No burritos.” Bill began threading the ribbon around his arm. “Then what are we?” Molly exhaled. “Disastrous thieves.” Bill’s eyes gleamed. “Proactive thieves.” Molly crouched and listened. From inside came the sound of squealing, a thump of music, and a faraway “Ready, set, go!” Molly whispered, “They’re playing a game.” Bill whispered, “Good. Games distract. Distraction is our accomplice.” Molly pointed at the door handle. “Then let’s go quietly.” Bill placed his ear against the wood. “Quietly is my middle name.” Molly raised her eyebrows. “You don’t have a middle name.” Bill shrugged. “Then quiet is my entire personality.” Molly tried the knob. It swung open an inch, then stopped. “Locked,” she said. Bill knelt and pulled out a bundle of what looked like hairpins. “Locks are just suggestions.” Molly sighed. “If we get caught, I’m blaming you.” Bill slid one pin in. “Already doing it. In my head. Legally.” The latch clicked. Molly’s eyes widened. “It worked?” Bill beamed. “I am a locksmith of the soul.” Molly slipped inside first, careful not to step on anything squeaky. “You’re stepping on the floor,” Bill whispered from behind her. “I’m aware.” “The floor is squeaking.” Molly froze. “That is not the floor. That is—” Bill’s voice dropped to a terrified squeak. “—our cover.” Molly turned slowly. Under her foot, a small plastic squeaker sat like a trap. Molly stared at it. “We are on a squeaky toy.” Bill whispered, “Genius.” Molly hissed, “Genius? We’re about to squeak like hamsters at a toddler zoo.” Bill gripped her shoulder. “No panic. We can blend.” Molly looked around the hallway. “With what? The wallpaper?” Bill whispered, “With enthusiasm.” Molly glanced toward the living room where a balloon arch bobbed. “I don’t think enthusiasm is a stealth technique.” Bill leaned close. “It is when you look guilty.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “I do not look guilty.” Bill pointed gently at her sparkles. “You look like guilty confetti.” Molly swallowed a laugh, then mouthed, “Fine.” She marched forward anyway. As they reached the gift area, a mountain of colorful presents sat beneath a banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, in letters that could be seen from space. Molly whispered, “They have so many.” Bill nodded reverently. “Enough to pay for a new life of crime.” Molly checked the room. “Where are the parents?” Bill’s grin returned. “At the party activities. The one with the clown.” Molly whispered, “If the clown notices us—” Bill interrupted, “He won’t. Clowns are blind. It’s their brand.” Molly lifted a hand toward the biggest present. “This one looks heavy.” Bill whispered, “That one’s probably full of something boring. We’ll start with the fun ones.” Molly pulled at a tag. “Do we even know what’s in them?” Bill shrugged. “Christmas, but faster.” Molly paused. “Birthday etiquette suggests we should… ask.” Bill shook his head. “Etiquette is for people with full schedules and moral compasses.” Molly leaned in, voice low and determined. “Okay. Give me the plan.” Bill held up the napkin again. “Step one: lift. Step two: wrap. Step three: relocate.” Molly whispered, “Where?” Bill pointed toward a decorated bin labeled ART SUPPLIES. “There.” Molly stared. “That’s where the markers go.” Bill nodded. “Markers and stolen joy. Same thing.” Molly took a breath. “This is insane.” Bill smoothed a ribbon over his knuckles. “This is Tuesday.” Molly glanced toward the door, where laughter surged closer. “Hurry.” Bill crouched beside the pile. “I was born ready.” Molly grabbed the first box. “Then let’s steal.” Bill whispered, “Let’s steal.”