Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AF5G809HTJ6T505M80WGJ

Molly pressed her face to the frosted glass of the window, squinting at the living room lights. “Bill, if we get caught, I’m blaming you for the whole idea.” Bill leaned in beside her, holding a tiny toolkit that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse. “It wasn’t my idea. You said we should ‘borrow’ the gifts.” “I did not say ‘borrow,’ I said ‘retrieve.’” He clicked a little device and the window latch sighed open like it was tired of working. “See? We’re professionals.” Molly adjusted her ski mask. “Professionals don’t wear glittery booties.” “They do if the floor’s sticky,” Bill said. “Besides, it’s camouflage.” “Camouflage is when you look like something the kids don’t notice.” “To be fair,” Bill murmured, “kids don’t notice much except snacks and embarrassment.” Molly smoothed her gloves. “Right. Our mission is simple. We steal every present.” Bill glanced at the tree through the crack in the window. “Every present is a lot of wrapping paper.” “Wrapping paper is the point,” Molly said. “It distracts them from the fact that their joy has been relocated to our bag.” Bill held up a sack the size of a medium dog. “This bag better be bigger on the inside.” Molly stared. “Why does it always get bigger on the inside in your plans?” “Because I believe in plot armor,” Bill said. “That’s not a thing.” “It is in books,” Bill replied. “We’re living the book.” Molly opened the window carefully, letting the cold air breathe in. “Okay. Once we’re inside, we move fast. No heroics.” “No heroics,” Bill echoed. “Only larceny.” “And no singing,” Molly added. Bill grinned. “I wasn’t going to sing.” “You were about to hum.” “It helps me focus.” “Hum quietly.” Bill crouched and slipped through first. “After you.” “I don’t trust your center of gravity,” Molly said, climbing after him. They landed on a soft rug that smelled faintly of cinnamon and excitement. Somewhere upstairs, a voice practiced the word “surprise” like it was a magic spell. Molly froze. “Did you hear that?” Bill whispered, “The house is alive with celebration.” Molly whispered louder, “Don’t say it like that. It sounds like a horror movie.” Bill pointed toward a hallway where balloons floated like lazy planets. “We should cut through the kitchen. Less witnesses.” Molly looked at the ceiling. “I can already feel the pie charts of doom forming.” Bill held up a laminated map he’d printed at home. “I’ve studied the layout.” Molly snatched the map. It was mostly doodles: stick figures, gift icons, and a big red circle labeled YOU ARE HERE in dramatic handwriting. “This is a coloring book page.” “It’s a strategic coloring book page,” Bill said. Molly rolled her eyes. “Fine. Kitchen, then living room, then the tree.” Bill’s voice lowered into seriousness. “We must respect the party.” Molly frowned. “Respect it by stealing from it?” “Respect it by not stepping on the twinkle lights,” Bill said. Molly nodded once. “Good. Because if those twinkle lights break, the kids will blame the moon.” Bill tiptoed forward, eyes tracking the floor. “Molly, you’re thinking about the moon again.” “The moon is suspicious,” Molly whispered. They rounded the corner, and a buffet table came into view like a feast for small villains. Tiny sandwiches, cupcakes, and—horrifying—an enormous cake shaped like an owl. Bill exhaled. “Our presence will not be noticed.” Molly leaned in toward the cake. “If I eat one cupcake, do we still have a chance to redeem ourselves?” Bill whispered, “We’re thieves.” Molly whispered back, “That’s not an answer.” Bill opened the sack slightly, as if trying to soothe it into compliance. “We’ll just take presents. No cupcakes.” Molly lifted her chin. “Say that again, but with conviction.” Bill cleared his throat. “We will absolutely not take cupcakes.” Molly smiled behind her mask. “Good. Conviction makes it less delicious.” A small giggle echoed from the hallway. Molly and Bill both turned. A toddler’s shadow wiggled across the wall, followed by a squeaky voice. “Who’s there?” Molly’s hand shot to her mouth. Bill slowly raised two fingers like a substitute teacher. “Hi,” he whispered, then immediately panicked and added, “Not who, actually.” The toddler peered around the corner, eyes wide. “Are you… friends?” Molly lowered herself into a kneel, making her voice gentle. “We’re… helpers.” Bill nodded hard. “Helpers who help things go surprise.” The toddler considered this deeply, then pointed at the tree. “Do you have surprises?” Molly and Bill exchanged a look that said, We do not have time for toddler theology. Molly reached into her pocket and produced a small, harmless party favor—an inflatable whistle. “For you,” she said. Bill quickly added, “Free surprises only.” The toddler’s grin exploded. “Yay!” The giggle returned, now with bounce. “My mom says don’t let strangers touch the presents!” Molly and Bill froze again. Bill whispered urgently, “She said ‘strangers.’” Molly whispered, “We can be helpers.” Bill whispered, “Helpers are strangers with better branding.” The toddler grabbed the whistle and ran off toward the living room, calling, “Come see the tree!” Molly breathed out. “Move. Before that child gains a plan.” Bill jogged after her, whispering, “We are totally professionals.” Molly grabbed the nearest gift with both hands and slid it into the sack. “Don’t let your confidence steal anything else.” Bill followed, stuffing wrapped boxes with a magician’s speed. “If the sack gets bigger,” he said, “it’s because it’s fueled by justice.” Molly snapped, “It’s fueled by us committing crimes.” “Yes,” Bill said, equally pleased. “But in a fun, gift-shaped way.”