Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0ABY8M7EMG3DZF6RKXPF2E

Molly crouched behind a shrub that had surrendered to a decorative gnome war. Inside the living room, party music thumped like it was auditioning for a car alarm. Bill peered through the lace curtains as if he expected the presents to wink. “They’re all going to be impressed,” Molly whispered. “With our stealth, I mean. Not with… stealing.” Bill adjusted his striped beanie until it looked like it was scared to be on his head. “Stealth? Molly, we are dressed as a moral lesson.” “At least the moral lesson is wearing black,” she said, glancing at her own hoodie with glittery stars that the kids would recognize from a sticker sheet. Bill nodded toward the kitchen doorway where a banner read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, followed by a confetti explosion graphic. “Okay. You see that table?” “That table is basically a treasure chest with frosting.” “Exactly. We hit, grab, vanish.” “Vanish where?” “In the gift pile. Like a magician.” Bill lifted a small cloth bag from his pocket. “Also, I brought duct tape.” Molly stared. “For what? Your personality?” “For the fact that kids are sticky, and sticky things grab.” He held up two rolls. “Museum-grade. It won’t leave residue.” “Kids are not museums, Bill. They’re tiny gremlins with allergies.” “That’s why we have the masks.” He pulled out two paper face cutouts: cheerful suns with tiny eyebrows. “They’re non-threatening.” Molly sighed. “You look like a sunrise that got robbed.” “And you look like you’re going to apologize to the candles.” “Plan is still plan.” Molly gestured toward the hallway. “Step one: we reach the presents before the ‘let’s all sing’ song starts.” Bill mimicked a sing-song voice. “And if the singing starts?” “We improvise,” she said. “Maybe we join. Or maybe we… distract.” “With what? Your glowy hoodie?” “With my terrifying competence.” Bill chuckled. “Terrifying is doing a lot of work there.” They edged toward the front door, careful not to disturb the wind chimes shaped like frogs. One frog immediately squeaked as if reporting them to the authorities. “Did you hear that?” Bill hissed. “Yes,” Molly said. “The frog tattled. I knew it. All frogs are snitches.” Bill pressed his ear to the wood. “Footsteps. Are they coming?” Molly checked her watch. “No. It’s probably the parent doing the ‘I’m definitely not nervous’ dance in the kitchen.” “Parents love dancing,” Bill said. “Especially when their kids are about to destroy the living room.” Molly took a breath and opened the door like she’d practiced in a dream. A stream of warm air and sugar smell rolled out. Somewhere, a child squealed with the confidence of someone who has never been betrayed by a utility bill. Bill froze. “Okay. I can hear it.” “What?” Molly asked. “The presents are calling.” He pointed at the doorway. Molly peeked in. The living room was a bright mess—balloons, streamers, and a tower of wrapped boxes that looked too perfect to survive a cartoon character. “Beautiful,” Molly breathed. “So many bows. So little time.” Bill held up the cloth bag. “I can grab the biggest ones first.” “Wrong. Order matters. We take anything with batteries. Parents love batteries.” Bill nodded vigorously. “Yes. Battery-powered doom.” Molly stepped forward, and the carpet swallowed her silently, like it was sworn to secrecy. She reached toward a stack wrapped in shiny paper. A plush toy leaned against it, smiling. The toy’s label said YOU’RE DOING GREAT, and Molly paused, offended. “Why is the plush encouraging us?” she asked. Bill leaned in. “Because it knows we’re trying our best.” Molly muttered, “My best is committing crime with empathy.” Bill snorted. “That’s not empathy. That’s guilt cosplay.” A laugh erupted from the hallway—an adult voice, close, cheerful, unaware. Molly and Bill froze in the act of pretending they were decorations. Bill whispered, “The sing-along starts. Now.” Molly nodded. “We move fast. Bag the loot. Then we become statues.” “And how do we become statues?” Bill asked. Molly stared at her own hands. “We stop moving.” “That’s… that’s not a trick.” “It’s the oldest trick in the world,” she said. “Immobility. The crime version of breathing.” Bill took a breath, then stopped breathing anyway, which made him look like he was waiting for an ambulance. “Okay,” Molly whispered, already slipping a small, battery-operated robot box into the bag. “Three… two…” Bill breathed again. “I don’t think time is—” “One,” Molly hissed, and the room erupted into singing, the adults joining with dramatic enthusiasm. Bill threw himself into a pose. “La la la—!” Molly pressed a finger to her mouth. “No singing. Stealing.” Bill nodded gravely, still smiling his sunrise smile. “Stealing, yes. Very musical in spirit.”