Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AD96MDB0RHW5C67YCWRNK

Molly crouched behind the parked van and peered through the rain-streaked windshield at the community hall. “Tell me again why we’re stealing from a children’s party.” Bill adjusted the fake mustache above his lip. “Because the insurance job fell through, the antique shop had a dog, and this one is unattended.” “Unattended by adults,” Molly said. “Children are not the same as unattended.” “They’re smaller,” Bill said. “That should help.” “That is the worst logic I have ever heard.” “Yet here we are.” Inside the hall, balloons bobbed against the ceiling, and the muffled shrieks of delighted children leaked through the walls in waves. A cardboard sign over the entrance read HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEO! in glittery blue letters, and a pirate cutout leaned cheerfully against the door. Molly watched a grandmother in a sequined cardigan hand a tray of cupcakes to a woman in a ponytail. “You do realize,” she said, “that this is the kind of party where people notice if even one jelly bean goes missing.” Bill pulled on black gloves. “Then we don’t take jelly beans. We take the presents.” “Bill.” “What?” “Those are presents for children.” “That’s what makes them present presents.” Molly pinched the bridge of her nose. “We are not doing wordplay in front of a birthday party.” “We’re not in front of it. We’re in a van with terrible suspension.” She glanced back at the cargo area, where their equipment sat in neat, absurd rows: lock picks, a miniature crowbar, a grappling hook, three flashlights, and a cake knife Bill had insisted was “for morale.” “What exactly is your plan?” Bill smiled, and the expression made his mustache tilt slightly to the left. “Simple. We blend in.” “With the children?” “With the parents.” Molly stared at him. “You are wearing a leather jacket.” “Vintage.” “You have a mustache drawn on with mascara.” “Discreet mascara.” “And you’re carrying a sack labeled ‘TOTALLY NOT STOLEN.’” Bill looked down at the sack. “In fairness, that was your label.” Molly sighed. “We are not blending in. We are two criminals with the energy of a failed magician duo.” “That is unfair,” Bill said. “I have excellent stage presence.” “You once bowled while a man was actively yelling ‘stop that thief.’” “I did it gracefully.” A burst of laughter spilled from inside the hall, followed by the sound of a trumpet made by a child who had no business owning a trumpet. Molly watched an usher with a lanyard open the side door to carry in a stack of paper plates. “There,” Bill whispered. “Our way in.” “That is a side door.” “Yes.” “Guarded by a woman in practical shoes.” Bill nodded. “Practical shoes mean she’s focused on logistics, not crime.” “That is also terrible logic.” “It keeps working for me.” Molly reached for her hood. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it cleanly. We go in, find the gift table, scoop up the presents, and leave before anyone notices.” Bill raised a finger. “We leave a decoy gift.” “No.” “A very nice decoy gift.” “No.” “A gift that says ‘To Leo, from Santa’ so they blame seasonal cross-contamination.” Molly unlatched the van door. “You should never be allowed near stationery.” Bill hopped out beside her. “Ready?” “No.” “Fantastic. That’s usually when you’re at your best.” They crossed the wet pavement toward the side entrance just as the woman in practical shoes stepped inside. Molly slipped in behind her, head down, while Bill followed with a cardboard box under his arm and the confidence of a man who had never once been invited to a party honestly. The hall was warm and bright, full of streamers and chaos. A long table near the stage groaned under piles of wrapped boxes, each one labeled with looping handwriting and stickers of dinosaurs, rockets, and smiling suns. Molly’s eyes widened despite herself. Bill whispered, “Look at that. A treasure hoard.” “Do not romanticize theft.” “I’m not. I’m appreciating the craftsmanship.” From across the room, a child in a paper crown screamed with joy as a magician made a rabbit appear from a hat. Molly blinked. “There’s a magician.” Bill froze. “That is deeply unhelpful.” The magician, a man with a silver vest and the haunted eyes of someone who had lost a war to balloon animals, locked eyes with them and gave the tiniest, most exhausted nod imaginable. Molly whispered, “Does he know?” Bill whispered back, “I think he knows everything.” “Then we’re doomed.” “Not doomed,” Bill said, straightening his jacket. “Pressured.” “Bill, that is not better.” But he was already walking toward the gift table with a grin, and Molly, against all sense and judgment, followed.