Run: 2026-09-01-01M1EMYD057BZN37EGR332T41Y

The dusty storage unit that Molly and Bill called their planning headquarters reeked of old cardboard and the lingering aroma of microwave burritos from three nights ago. Molly stood over a folding table littered with crayon sketches of a suburban backyard, complete with stick-figure children and a mountain of wrapped boxes. Bill lounged in a broken lawn chair, absently inflating a balloon that kept slipping from his sausage-like fingers. Molly tapped the sketch with a chewed pencil. We hit during the cake, when every parent is busy filming the kid blowing out candles. You roll the wagon of gifts right out the side gate like you belong there. Bill popped the balloon with a startled yelp. Wagon? Last wagon we used had a wobbly wheel and I nearly took out a mailbox. Besides, kids notice everything. One of them will scream that the presents are leaving. Molly snatched the deflated rubber from his lap. That’s why we dress as the entertainment. I’ll be the balloon-twisting clown. You be the guy in the giant cupcake costume. We load the wagon while they’re distracted by your frosting-covered face. Bill crossed his arms, the chair groaning in protest. Cupcake costume? I’ll roast alive in that thing. And clowns terrify me. Remember the one at the circus that chased us for stealing popcorn? Molly rolled her eyes so hard they nearly disappeared. That clown was seventy and used a walker. This time we control the chaos. When they smash the piñata, that’s our signal. Candy everywhere, kids diving, parents laughing. Perfect cover. Bill scratched his stubbled chin. What if the piñata is full of those healthy snacks instead of candy? My nephew’s party had raisins. Raisins, Molly. The kids rioted. Molly paced, her sneakers squeaking on the concrete. Then we improvise. You start a conga line. I’ll shout that the real presents are hidden in the bounce house. Everyone stampedes that way, we grab the actual pile and vanish. Bill sat up straighter, a rare spark of enthusiasm in his eyes. Bounce house trampoline escape? I like that. I can bounce over the fence like a superhero. But what about the dog? Every backyard has a dog that hates strangers. Molly grinned, pulling a crumpled bag of treats from her pocket. That’s why I always carry these. Toss a handful, dog’s our best friend. We even take the leftover cake. Consider it a bonus. They spent the next stretch arguing over getaway vehicles. Bill wanted the ice-cream truck they had “borrowed” last summer, its chimes still stuck on a loop. Molly insisted on the minivan with the faded “Baby on Board” sticker, claiming it screamed innocent family. Bill finally nodded, though his expression remained doubtful. Fine. But if a kid asks me to make a balloon poodle, I’m out. I only know how to make sad snakes. Molly clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him from the chair. Sad snakes it is. We’ll be legends. Or in jail. Same difference for us. The two thieves high-fived, the sound echoing off the metal walls as they returned to their sketches, adding more arrows, more diversions, and one very large drawing of a cupcake with legs running down the street.