Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0ATA3JJYQE8XCR0YAFYV5V

Bill crouched behind a landscaping bush like it had personally offended him. His mask—an aggressively cheerful clown thing—made him look less like a professional and more like a birthday clown who’d been asked to leave the circus. Molly, meanwhile, stood perfectly still, listening with the focus of a librarian and the patience of a cat. “There’s music,” Bill whispered. “That’s the sound of righteousness,” Molly whispered back, though her tone suggested righteousness was mostly frosting and bad decisions. She adjusted a small backpack. Inside clinked something suspiciously wrapped. Bill peeked through the gap in the shrubbery. Across the lawn, a bounce house bobbed like a trapped cloud. A banner read HAPPY SIXTH BIRTHDAY, which struck Molly as an overly confident decision for six-year-olds everywhere. Strings of paper lanterns swung gently. Under them, parents fussed with plates and plastic utensils shaped like dinosaurs. “We’re going to be so invisible,” Bill said. Molly snorted. “Yes. Like two squirrels in Halloween costumes.” Bill held up a roll of duct tape. “I brought tape.” “You brought tape to a party.” Molly stared at it. “Bill, tape is for sealing envelopes and minor regrets.” Bill’s eyes gleamed beneath the clown makeup. “It’s also for sticking things.” Molly leaned closer. “We’re not sticking ourselves to anything. We’re taking the presents, ideally before anyone notices their holiday spirit has been repossessed.” From inside the house came the thud of a piñata being tested, followed by a chorus of squeals. Bill winced as if it were artillery. “They’ll have security,” he said. “Sure,” Molly replied. “The security is called ‘grandma who naps in the living room’ and ‘uncle who thinks vaping is an allergy.’” Bill swallowed. “What if a kid catches us?” Molly’s mouth curved. “Then we offer them a very polite distraction. Maybe a decoy gift. Something small. Something educational. Like a toy microscope.” “That sounds suspiciously kind.” “It’s strategy,” Molly said. “Kindness is just crime with better lighting.” Bill checked his watch, then immediately looked guilty for doing anything with a watch at a children’s party. “Okay. Plan. We enter through the garage. You’re the distraction. I’m the—” “The aesthetic element,” Molly finished. She gestured to Bill’s outfit. “Your clown getup is basically a parade of bad choices.” Bill tugged at his sleeves. “You’re wearing a hoodie.” “Exactly. I’m stealth,” Molly said, and nodded toward her own hoodie, which had a cartoon cat on it wearing sunglasses. “Cats are stealthy. Everyone knows that.” Bill exhaled, trying to look brave while also looking like he was about to apologize to a vending machine. “How do we bypass the garage lock?” Molly held up a slender set of tools. They looked like they belonged in a kitchen drawer next to measuring spoons. “I picked the lock with the confidence of a woman who has watched too many home renovation shows.” Bill blinked. “You watched shows about locks?” “I watched shows about people failing,” Molly corrected. “Then I learned the part where they succeed.” A parent laughed loudly at something inside, and Molly and Bill both froze. Their freeze was so synchronized it should have earned them a small trophy. “Did they see us?” Bill mouthed. “They didn’t,” Molly mouthed back, but her eyes stayed on the house as if it might lunge. Bill leaned in. “What about the dog?” Molly frowned. “I heard barking.” Bill looked grim. “We’re going to have a dog.” Molly smiled like a person who’d already decided the dog would be moved emotionally, not physically. “We brought snacks.” Bill fumbled in his pocket and produced a bag of what appeared to be dog treats—except the packaging read “CHICKEN FLAVOR, FOR HUMAN SAFETY,” which made no sense and seemed like a trap for both thieves and canines. Molly took the bag, examined it, then nodded. “These are… probably fine.” “Probably,” Bill echoed. The house door opened. A gust of warm air and cake smell spilled out. Molly and Bill both slipped forward, using the lawn ornament shadows as cover, until the garage stood within arm’s reach. Molly crouched by the garage handle. “On my count. Three. Two—” Bill whispered, “I just want you to know I hate this part.” Molly’s eyes flicked to him. “That’s the part where you pretend you’re not excited.” Bill swallowed. “I’m excited.” “Good,” Molly said. “Then you’ll be fast.” She pulled the garage tool kit from her bag with calm precision. Bill pressed closer, breath held, clown face tense with anticipation. Molly whispered, “One… go.”