Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0ATT5005C89PN46PA2RERR

Molly crouched behind a shrub that looked like it had been planted specifically to judge her life choices. Across the lawn, a inflatable castle bobbed gently in the breeze, squeaking like it was trying to tell on her. Bill slid his phone into his pocket, then immediately pulled it back out and checked the flashlight app as if the moon might update its brightness. “We’re really doing this,” Bill whispered, adjusting a striped beanie that made him look like a malfunctioning birthday clown. “Stealing presents. From children.” “Yes,” Molly whispered back, tightening her mask. Her mask had tiny ears because apparently she believed in committing to the bit. “It’s not stealing. It’s… relocating. Like raccoons, but with better planning and less rabies.” Bill peered through the gap in the fence. A stream of kids flowed past the front door in a colorful parade of sticky shoes and optimism. Someone’s laughter rang out like a small bell trying to summon chaos. “Are there security cameras?” “There are decorative potted plants,” Molly said. “Decorative potted plants always watch. Their stems are suspicious.” Bill nodded seriously, then lifted a roll of tape from his bag. “Okay. Step one: disable the potted plant surveillance.” “That’s not a step,” Molly said. “That’s a coping mechanism.” He grinned. “I learned it in the confidence arts.” Molly leaned closer to the door, listening. Music thumped from inside—something with a squeaky beat and lyrics about being awesome. Every few seconds, a voice yelled, “Everybody, gather around!” like the universe’s most cheerful alarm system. Bill lowered his voice further. “We need a distraction.” Molly looked at the lawn. There was a table near the side gate stacked with party favors. At the top sat a towering bag of balloons, each tied with shimmering strings. A label on the bag read: RELIABLE BALLOONS. Molly squinted. “Those balloons say ‘reliable.’” Bill followed her gaze. “Bad news. Reliable means something goes wrong.” “No,” Molly said. “Reliable means they’re going to keep floating after we stab them.” Bill blinked. “We’re stabbing balloons?” “It’s a controlled deflation,” Molly corrected, as if that made it legal. She reached into her bag and pulled out a tiny toolkit. It had the word AIRBRUSH printed on it, which seemed like a lie designed to make her feel safe. “I’m not puncturing them. I’m… persuading them to leave the party.” Bill swallowed. “That’s basically puncturing.” “Look, Bill,” Molly said, brushing a strand of hair under her mask like she was smoothing a cover story. “When the kids hear the balloons squeak and wobble, the parents will look. Everyone will look away from the gift table. We go in, we grab the presents, we exit. Simple.” Bill glanced at his own bag, which contained what appeared to be an absurd amount of ribbon. “Why do we have ribbon?” Molly’s eyes widened a fraction. “For re-wrapping. We’re not monsters.” Bill stared. “We’re… thieves.” “We can be thieves with taste,” Molly said. “Also, ribbon makes everything seem like it was meant to be stolen. Like a magician’s assistant. Only sadder.” Bill crouched beside her, tucking his knees under him with the grace of a folding chair. “What about the dog?” Molly froze, then relaxed. “There’s no dog.” Bill pointed with one finger. “The dog-shaped shadow is under the patio table.” Molly followed his line of sight. Under the patio table, a small dog’s ears twitched. It looked like it was thinking about biting the concept of crime. Molly swallowed. “That’s not a dog.” Bill’s voice dropped to a respectful whisper. “It’s definitely a dog.” Molly pulled a pair of tiny earmuffs from her pocket and offered them to Bill like a peace treaty. “We distract it.” “How?” Molly smiled. “We tell it it’s doing great.” Bill stared. “That’s your plan? Compliments?” “Compliments are powerful,” Molly said. “Dogs respond to sincerity. Also… treats.” Bill’s eyes lit up. “We have treats?” Molly patted her bag. “Maybe.” Bill leaned closer, as if they were sharing state secrets. “Molly. If we get caught, I’m blaming you.” Molly lifted a finger. “If we get away, you’re still blaming me. It keeps things fair.” Bill laughed under his breath. “Okay. Ready?” Molly nodded toward the door. “On three. And remember: no sudden movements. We’re stealthy.” Bill glanced at his beanie again. “This is stealthy?” “This is… stealth-adjacent,” Molly said. “One. Two—” A parent inside called out, “Who’s ready for the present game?” The whole room seemed to lean toward the gift table like magnetism had joined the party. Molly and Bill exchanged a final look that said, We have made questionable choices, but we are committed. “Three,” Molly whispered, and they slipped from behind the shrub, swallowed by the night air and the squeaky promise of balloons learning how to fall.