Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0ANGYR8FC69ZQ01E20FNP2

Molly crouched behind the potted palm outside the community center, the kind that always smelled like citrus and disappointment. Through the frosted windows, a cheerful barrage of balloons bobbed to unseen music, and somewhere inside a clown’s laugh echoed like it had been programmed to never stop. Bill stood to her left with the solemnity of a bank robber and the shoes of a person who had been kicked out of three banks. “Okay,” Bill whispered, pulling out a small blueprint the size of a napkin. It was covered in doodles of candy canes and what appeared to be a cartoon mousetrap. “We sneak in, we grab the presents, we vanish into the night.” “We are not vanishing into the night,” Molly hissed. “We are vanishing into a van that is probably stolen, or at least morally questionable.” “It’s a van with a missing logo,” Bill said. “That’s basically the same thing.” Molly peered toward the side entrance, where a plastic sign announced TODAY’S CHILDREN’S PARTY! NO ADULTS BEYOND THIS POINT. The letters were cheerful, but the words had the sternness of a locked diary. She tapped her earpiece, then frowned at the lack of an earpiece on her own body. “Do you have an earpiece?” Bill asked. “I have trust issues,” Molly replied. “Now listen—last time you tried to ‘blend in,’ you wore a hoodie that said BOSS BABY.” “It was a limited edition,” Bill said. “People were calling me ‘mister potential.’” Molly checked her satchel. Inside were gloves, a stethoscope, and a gadget that looked like a hairdryer designed by a committee. She lifted the gadget and shook it. Something rattled like coins arguing. “Is that the present-sapping thing?” Bill asked. “It’s called the Gift Extractor,” Molly said. “It gently persuades gift wrap to stop being where it started. Like a motivational speaker, but for paper.” Bill adjusted his belt, which jingled with tools that sounded like party favors auditioning for a heist. “All right, Molly. What’s the plan? We can’t just take everything.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “We’re not taking everything.” Bill brightened. “Great! Like, we take the expensive ones? The ones with the shiny—” “We’re taking all the presents,” Molly finished, “but we will not take any of the ones that are obviously cursed.” Bill blinked. “How do you know which ones are cursed?” Molly glanced through the window. A group of children in party hats sat cross-legged as an adult in a rainbow wig blew up balloons shaped like swords. “Anything wrapped in silver wrapping paper with a bow that looks too smug? Probably cursed.” Bill nodded with the seriousness of someone who had definitely lived through a Smug Bow Incident. “So we take the normal presents, and we avoid the… smug.” “Correct.” They waited. Inside, the wigged adult clapped twice. “Now! The treasure hunt starts in five minutes!” Molly and Bill exchanged a look that said, Finally, something we understand: the art of stealing while everyone else is busy running around. Molly pulled out a small can labeled SAFETY SPRAY in cheerful letters. Bill squinted. “Is that… paint?” “It’s scent camouflage,” Molly said. “Kids recognize adult scents. It makes me smell like… bubble solution.” “That sounds like a disease,” Bill murmured. “It’s fine. I researched it,” Molly said, then carefully spritzed the air around her like a florist with a criminal record. Bill leaned closer. “Should I do the same?” Molly stared at him. “Do you want to smell like bubble solution?” “I’m not against it,” Bill said. “Then spritz the pants,” Molly replied. Bill looked personally offended by the concept of his pants being involved in a plan. “My pants are already in a partnership with destiny.” “Your destiny is getting us caught,” Molly said. “Now move.” She slid toward the side entrance, where a keypad sat beneath a sign that read EMPLOYEES ONLY, WHICH, frankly, felt like an invitation written by someone with no sense of consequence. Bill followed, whispering to himself as he counted. “One, two, three… please don’t be a touchscreen. Touchscreens are judgmental.” The keypad beeped anyway. Molly pressed her fingertips to it with practiced confidence, then glanced at Bill. “What did you do with the access code?” “I didn’t do anything,” Bill said. “The access code is… it’s probably ‘password.’ People love passwords.” Molly exhaled. “Bill.” “What?” Bill asked, sounding like he was trying to file an appeal. “It can’t be ‘password.’ It’s a children’s party. They’ll have ‘cupcakes’ or ‘princess’ or ‘no running’ or something.” Bill took out his napkin-clipboard and checked it. “I wrote down ‘princess’ but only because you said the last place used ‘princess.’” Molly’s mouth twitched. “I said the last place used ‘princess’ in the sense that it was trying to be secret. Not that it was correct.” Bill leaned in, tapped the keypad, and held his breath like a diver approaching disappointment. “Okay. Princess.” The keypad chirped. A lock clicked. The side door swung open with the soft menace of an apology. Molly grinned. “See? Bubble solution works.” Bill stepped through first, then froze. “Uh…” Molly followed his gaze to a small table labeled PRESENTS—PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH. On top sat a cheerful bowl of candy, and beside it a sign: If You Touch the Presents, They May Touch Back. Molly blinked once. “That is absolutely cursed.” Bill swallowed. “We said we avoid cursed ones.” Molly tightened her gloves. “We will avoid touching the presents directly.” Bill brightened. “We can just… steal the wrap? Like Gift Extractor—” “No,” Molly said, pointing at the sign, “we are doing this carefully. We’re going to take them without touching them.” Bill stared. “How does that work?” Molly stepped toward the table, opened her satchel, and produced a pair of tiny suction cups attached to a telescoping stick. “Like this.” Bill leaned closer, impressed. “You brought suction cups.” “I always bring suction cups,” Molly said. “It’s the only thing standing between me and chaos.” Inside, the wigged adult’s voice boomed again: “All right, teams, GO!” Molly and Bill exchanged a final look—an alliance forged in snack crumbs and questionable signage. “Let’s steal responsibly,” Molly whispered. Bill nodded. “Responsibly and fast. I do not want to see the Smug Bow in action.” Molly lifted the stick, set the suction cups beneath the first gift, and guided it upward with the gentleness of a cat disarming a vase. The present rose. Then, with a soft, almost offended thump, a hidden motion sensor clicked somewhere in the ceiling. A small speaker crackled. A child’s recorded voice chirped, “Nice try!” Bill jerked backward. “Oh no.” Molly hissed, “That’s not a curse. That’s… a parent.” They sprinted for the door as the speaker kept talking, cheerful as a guillotine. “If you take the presents, you’ll have to answer a riddle!” Bill panted. “Molly, I can’t answer riddles! I don’t even know what day it is!” Molly slammed the side door behind them. “Then we steal the day, too! Move!”