Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ8GCZQ4DD1H2CM1KDJTKNH

Molly leaned over the map of the backyard, her finger jabbing at the bounce house. “Okay, the presents are stacked in the shed. We crack in during the piñata activity. Simple.” Bill adjusted his wireframes, squinting. “Simple? The piñata’s a three-hundred-pound candyfloss dragon. The kids’ll be screaming, the dad’s got a DSLR on a tripod, and the clown—” “Bozo’s a liability. He’s so wasted on rum punch he’ll mistake us for his backup band.” Molly tossed a wrench onto the table. “We’re pros. Remember?” “Remember the time you tried to ‘professionally infiltrate’ the daycare? You got stuck in a sensory bin.” Bill winced. “Therapy costs money, Molly.” “It was a tactical retreat. The glitter slowed us down, true, but at least we had *style*.” She twirled a lock of her neon-green braid. “Tonight’s different. The parents hired a magician. We’ll just… borrow his sleight-of-hand trick.” “Ah, the magician! Great. Because stealing from kids while a guy makes doves fly out of socks is *subtle*.” Bill gestured wildly. “What if they have *security*? Like real security? Or a laser grid? Or a dog?” “Relax. The dog’s a teacup pomeranian named Sir Barksalot. He’ll bark once, then pass out from the sugar rush.” Molly tapped her temple. “We use the tunnel to the shed. You handle the lock.” “Me? You know I can’t pick locks when there’s a crowd. What if someone sees us?” “Then you’ll blend in.” Molly smirked. “Wear the clown’s spare nose. Green one. It’ll hide in the bushes.” “Great. I’ll look like a walking target. Why not just ring a bell?” Bill crossed his arms. “The presents are probably booby-trapped. What if they’re fake? Or full of BBs?” “They’re real. I reconnoitered. There’s a gold-plated Furby under the wrapping. But if you’re scared, maybe you should—” “I’m not scared! I’m strategic. You didn’t think about *exits*. What happens when we’re done? We run? Through *seven-year-olds*?” “Same way we enter: like ninjas. We grab the stash, vanish during the magician’s finale, and leave zero evidence.” Molly stood, pacing. “Besides, we’re not just thieves. We’re *artists*. This is a stage.” Bill huffed. “Artists don’t get caught by a twelve-foot inflatable cupcake with a motor.” Molly paused. “We’ll repurpose the cupcake. Use it as a distraction. You’ll be the anchor.” “You want me to *wear* the cupcake?” “Unless you’d rather be Sir Barksalot’s chew toy?” A silence hung, thick with dread. Bill stared at the wrench. “What if I slip and fall on the bounce house? I’ll be suspended property, Molly. They’ll send me to a *preschool*.” “Then don’t slip. It’s a five-minute window. You’ve done harder. Remember the time we stole the wedding cake?” “That was different. There was champagne.” “And eggnog! And you cried when the fondant melted.” Molly tossed him a helmet. “Here. For the bike. Post-heist. We’ll sell the toys at the flea market tomorrow.” Bill fumbled the helmet. “And the parents? They’ll be heartbroken. It’s a *birthday*.” “Let them cry. We’ll leave a note.” Molly grinned. “‘Sorry, but we’re professionals. Also, the DJ’s mixing CD is now a vintage collectible.’” Bill blinked. “You wrote that last part.” “Hey, I’m multitasking. Now, are we doing this or are we going to debate whether a cupcake costume is a ‘walking time bomb’?” Bill sighed. “What’s the plan if we get caught?” Molly opened the door, wind snatching her braid. “We write a stronger exit strategy. Always.” “Like what?” “Like I’ll be the cupcake, and you’ll be the balloon artist. Mr. Whiskers wants a raise, right?” Bill groaned. “Why is the balloon rat named *Mr. Whiskers*?” “Why is the magician’s dove named *Kevin*?” They stared at each other, then burst out laughing. “Let’s do this,” said Molly. Bill mumbled, “And if Kevin the dove attacks?” “We tell him we’re his *biggest fan*.”