Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AQTG46QRQGCV47GS21FZ5

Molly tugged her hoodie sleeves down over her hands and peered through the hedge like a professional owl. “Bill, I swear this party is in a fortress.” Bill adjusted the burglar headlamp on his forehead, which made him look like an anxious miner. “It’s just balloons, Molly. Balloons can’t arrest you.” “They can pop,” Molly said. “Then everyone panics. Then the entire neighborhood unionizes against crime.” Bill pointed at a row of smiling cartoon characters printed on the fence. “Look, even the fencing is cheerful. We’ll be invisible. Like… like a tasteful shadow wearing sweatpants.” Molly glanced at the address on the invitation clutched in her pocket. “It says ‘Princess Sparkle’s Birthday.’ You think Princess Sparkle would invite criminals?” Bill gasped. “First of all, we are not criminals. We are… temporary gift collectors with strong opinions about wrapping.” Molly sighed. “Strong opinions about stealing is still stealing.” Bill leaned closer. “Okay, but think about the true mission. Presents. All of them. The kind of stuff that comes with batteries and dramatic assembly instructions.” Molly raised an eyebrow. “You mean the kind that summons parents at midnight with three missing screws?” “Exactly,” Bill said. “We’re doing the community a service.” Molly stared. “You’re going to ‘service’ everyone by taking the toys?” Bill nodded solemnly. “Yes. We’ll redistribute them to ourselves.” “Wonderful,” Molly said. “Moral genius.” She crouched beside a planter and opened a small case. Inside sat party supplies: a tiara, a fake mustache, and a glittery cape labeled in marker: MOLLY’S DO NOT USE FOR CRIMES. Bill held up the tiara like a warning sign. “You brought the tiara?” “I brought the tiara,” Molly confirmed, “because disguise is important.” Bill squinted. “You plan to wear that?” “Yes,” Molly said. “Do you want to be mistaken for a clown?” Bill put on the fake mustache. It made his face look like he’d tried to prank a mannequin. “Clowns are social. They hand out cotton candy. People trust clowns.” Molly said, “People also scream when clowns show up uninvited.” Bill pointed toward the backyard, where music thumped through the air and a fog machine puffed like it was breathing. “Quiet, strategic! We slip in, we grab the gifts, we slip out, and we never mention the fog again.” Molly looked at the fog machine’s power cord snaking toward a socket. “Bill, that’s plugged in. That’s invitation energy. Also, the cord is ten feet long.” Bill nodded. “We’ll respect the cord.” Molly blinked. “Respecting the cord is not a plan.” “It is a vibe,” Bill said. “Vibes get you through doors.” Molly pulled out a clipboard—blank, naturally—and cleared her throat. “Plan A: be adorable. Plan B: be busy. Plan C: if anyone asks, we are… party managers.” Bill smiled. “Yes. We are party managers. We manage the party by removing its loot.” Molly tapped his shoulder. “Bill.” “What?” “Do not say ‘loot’ out loud.” Bill lowered his voice. “We’re removing its gift-related assets.” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Say it again and I’ll tie that cape around your ankle and let the universe decide your fate.” Bill opened the gate carefully—carefully enough to squeak just a little. Immediately, a dog barked from inside the house like it had been waiting for a cue. Bill froze. “Did you hear that?” Molly whispered, “That was the dog. Dogs always know.” Bill swallowed. “We should apologize to the dog.” Molly shook her head. “We should not create a courtroom.” Bill leaned in and called softly through the hedge, “Hi, dog! We’re friendly! We just love… parties!” A child’s laughter echoed from the patio. “Adults! Where are the adults?” someone shouted. Molly grabbed Bill’s wrist. “Nope. That’s a question with consequences.” Bill looked around, then pointed at the front door where a sign read: PLEASE REMOVE SHOES IN FOYER. “We can’t remove shoes if we’re still outside.” Molly said, “Then we’ll… stand there convincingly.” Bill nodded eagerly. “Like statues. Statues don’t get questioned.” Molly stared at him. “Statues don’t move.” Bill adjusted his tiara and stepped forward anyway. “We’re not statues. We’re… commemorative statues.” Molly whispered, “Bill, your mustache is crooked.” Bill whispered back, “So is my confidence, but it still walks forward.” The front door opened. A woman’s voice floated out, bright and suspicious. “Oh! Hi there! Can I help you?” Molly inhaled glittery courage. “Yes,” she said, “we’re here for the… uh… gift inventory.” Bill added quickly, “We’re the ones who count the presents so nobody panics later!” The woman smiled. “That’s sweet! Are you with the party planner?” Molly nodded as if she’d rehearsed on a cloud. “We are the party planner-adjacent.” Bill leaned in, stage-whispering. “Adjacent is still close.” Molly hissed, “Bill.” Bill hissed back, “What? It’s basically the same thing in crime math.” Molly forced a grin. “We’re very near. We’ll be quick. Like… ninjas who love paperwork.” The woman laughed. “Come in! The kids are about to do the gift-opening chant!” Bill’s eyes widened. “Gift-opening chant?” Molly grabbed his arm. “Don’t ask. Always walk. Always smile. Always—” Bill interrupted, “Always steal the presents?” Molly glared. “Always pretend you’re just here to count them.”