Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0N67WGFQXV8QC1WB2AXPJW

Molly unfolded the map of the community center across the hood of Bill’s van, weighing down the corners with a doughnut, a flashlight, a rubber duck, and Bill’s left shoe. The shoe had not been part of the plan, but neither had Bill stepping in a puddle shaped exactly like Greenland. Inside the center, balloons bobbed against the windows. A paper banner read HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY, OLIVER! Beneath it, a table sagged under wrapped gifts, each one bright, shiny, and dangerously stealable. “We’re not calling it stealing,” Molly said. Bill adjusted the fake mustache he wore for confidence. “What are we calling it?” “Emergency redistribution of decorative boxes.” “Right. From children.” “From overindulgent relatives,” Molly corrected. “Big difference.” Bill peered through binoculars, though he was standing only twelve feet from the window. “I count nineteen presents, one magician, two grandmothers, and a clown with suspicious upper-body strength.” “That clown is our main obstacle.” “I hate that sentence.” Molly tapped the map with a licorice whip. “We enter through the kitchen at fourteen hundred. You create a distraction near the piñata. I load the presents into laundry bags. We exit through the side door, blend into the parking lot, and vanish.” Bill nodded solemnly. “What’s my distraction?” “You start a conga line.” “I have a medical condition.” “You do not.” “I do. Conga anxiety.” Molly sighed. “Fine. You challenge the magician to a duel.” “With what? Wands?” “With confidence, Bill.” Bill looked at the magician through the glass. The man was producing scarves from a sleeve while a circle of children screamed as if witnessing a miracle or a felony. “He’s armed with wonder. I’m not ready.” A small dog in a party hat trotted past the window dragging a streamer. Molly watched it carefully. “Dog wasn’t on the guest list,” she said. “Maybe he’s security.” “He’s wearing a hat.” “So are half the best criminals.” Molly began stuffing supplies into a backpack: tape, gloves, juice boxes, a clipboard, and two paper crowns. Bill held up one crown. “Why do we need these?” “Disguises.” “As royalty?” “As fun uncles.” “We are neither fun nor uncles.” “Speak for yourself. I once made a nephew laugh so hard milk came out of his nose.” “That was in a courtroom.” “It still counts.” The kitchen door opened, and a woman carrying a tray of cupcakes stepped outside. Molly and Bill froze. Bill slowly raised the rubber duck in front of his face. The woman stared. “Can I help you?” Molly smiled brightly. “We’re with entertainment.” The woman looked at the duck. “What kind?” “Educational piracy,” Bill said. Molly kicked him in the ankle. “For the children,” he added. The woman narrowed her eyes, then shrugged. “You’re late. The puppet show starts in five.” The door swung wider. From inside came the smell of frosting, pizza, and unguarded opportunity. Molly snatched up the map. “Change of plan.” Bill swallowed. “We’re puppets now?” “We’re whatever gets us near that gift table.” They slipped into the kitchen, where three teenagers were arranging cupcakes into a lopsided dinosaur. Molly marched through with clipboard authority, the greatest power known to civilization. Bill followed, duck tucked under his arm, crown crooked on his head. In the party room, chaos reigned beautifully. Children shrieked. Parents negotiated juice spills. The magician bowed while a rabbit chewed his cuff. The clown flexed while twisting balloons into swords, which seemed irresponsible. The presents glittered beneath the banner. Bill leaned close. “Molly, one question.” “What?” “If we steal birthday presents from a six-year-old, are we the villains?” Molly hesitated. Oliver, the birthday boy, stood beside the table hugging a stuffed dinosaur with one eye. He wore frosting on his cheek and pure delight on his face. Bill whispered, “That kid looks like he believes in tax refunds.” Molly grimaced. “Blast.” The clown spotted them. “Puppet show?” Molly straightened. “Yes. A moral puppet show.” Bill lifted the duck. “About crime not paying.” Twenty minutes later, Molly and Bill stood behind a cardboard theater, performing the tragic tale of Captain Grabbyhands, a pirate who learned that stealing presents made everyone sad and also attracted bees. The children howled with laughter. The parents applauded. Oliver gave them each a cupcake. Outside afterward, Bill licked frosting from his thumb. “Worst heist ever.” Molly looked at the cupcake, then at the envelope of cash the party mother had pressed into her hand. “We got paid, fed, and nobody called the police.” Bill considered this. “Best heist ever.” Molly put on the paper crown. “Next week, we rob a bake sale.” “By selling muffins?” “Exactly.” They climbed into the van, leaving every present behind, except for the rubber duck, which Bill insisted had earned retirement.