Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AMB2Z0ETW88XT4ST9MA1Y

“Molly, tell me again why we’re doing this,” Bill whispered, crouched behind a hedge and peering at the brightly lit house. “Because,” Molly said, adjusting her black gloves with grave importance, “children’s parties are chaos, chaos is cover, and cover is how we get rich.” “Rich by stealing six-year-olds’ birthday gifts.” “Don’t say it like that. It sounds tacky.” “It is tacky.” “Bill, please. We are artists.” “Artists don’t usually target a moon-bounce and a clown named Gerald.” Molly squinted toward the backyard. “Gerald’s the weak link. He keeps trying to juggle oranges near the punch bowl.” “That’s not a weak link. That’s a lawsuit.” “Exactly. Everyone’s distracted.” Bill leaned closer. “What if one of the kids sees us?” “They won’t. Children are tiny, loud, and deeply self-absorbed.” “That’s cold.” “It’s accurate. Now, according to the plan, we enter through the side gate, stroll in like we belong there, and blend with the parents.” Bill frowned. “I don’t know how to blend with parents.” “Then nod a lot and hold a paper plate.” “A paper plate?” “Every adult at a children’s party is holding one. It’s the law.” Bill looked down at his hands. “I don’t have a paper plate.” “Then take one when we get inside.” “And if someone asks our names?” Molly gave him a dazzling smile. “We are the Pettersons.” “You said that with too much confidence.” “Confidence is half the costume.” “The other half?” Molly patted the oversized cake she’d hidden under her coat. “A cake. We brought a cake, Bill. No one questions people carrying a cake.” “That cake has a suspiciously hollow center.” “It’s for the presents.” “You hollowed out a cake for the presents?” “It’s a classic concealment technique.” “I’m pretty sure classic concealment involves bags.” “Boring bags. We’re here to make history.” Bill glanced again at the party. “I can hear sing-songing.” “Yes, they’re doing the birthday song.” “Should we feel bad?” Molly crossed her arms. “Do you feel bad when a bank has a nice lobby?” “We’re not stealing from a bank.” “No, we’re stealing from children, which is better. They don’t appreciate craftsmanship.” Bill stared at her. “You’re impossible.” “And you’re late. Put on your fake mustache.” “This looks like a caterpillar glued to my lip.” “Perfect. You look prosperous.” “I look like a man who’s been rejected by a puppet show.” “That, too, is prosperous.” Bill lowered his voice. “What’s the actual first step?” “We enter during the gift-opening lull, compliment the mother, locate the mountain of presents, and quietly transfer them to the getaway van.” “You mean your van.” “I’m the visionary. Visionaries own vans.” Bill shifted. “And if the kids notice the presents disappearing?” “Then you distract them.” “How?” Molly grinned. “Magic trick.” “I don’t know any magic tricks.” “You know one.” “I do?” “You can make a balloon animal.” “I can barely make a balloon apology.” “That’ll do. Children love incompetence in moderation.” Bill sighed, then straightened his tie. “All right. For the record, this is a terrible idea.” Molly peeked over the hedge again. “For the record, your standards are adorable. The coast is clear. Ready?” “No.” “Wonderful. Come on, Petterson. Time to rob the future.” They slipped through the side gate just as a burst of laughter rose from the backyard, Molly with her cake, Bill with his caterpillar mustache, both of them smiling like they had been invited, and for a terrible second it almost looked as if they had.